Lear. O, reafon not the need: our basest beggars Allow not nature more than nature needs, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, That all the world fhall I will do fuch things,- Or e'er I weep.. O fool, I fhall go mad. [Exeunt Lear, Glo'fter, Kent, and Fool. SCENE XII. Corn. Let us withdraw, 'twill be a storm. [Storm and Tempeft. Reg. This houfe is fmall, the old man and his people Cannot be well beftow'd. Gon. 'Tis his own blame, he'ath put himself from reft, And must needs taste his folly. Reg. For his particular, I'll receive him gladly, But not one follower. Gon. So am I purpos'd. Where is my Lord of Glo'fter? Enter Glo'fter. Glo. The King is in high rage. Corn. Whither is he going? Glo. He calls to horfe: but will I know not whither. Gon Gon. My Lord, intreat him by no means to stay. Glo. Alack, the night comes on: and the high winds Do forely rufsle; for many miles about There's fcarce a bush. Reg. O Sir, to wilful men, The injuries that they themselves procure Muft be their school-mafters; fhut up your doors ; And what they may incenfe him to, being apt To have his ear abus'd, wisdom bids fear, Corn. Shut up your doors, my Lord, 'tis a wild night. My Regan counfels well: come out o' th' ftorm. [Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE I. A form is beard with Thunder and Lightning. Enter Kent. W HO's there befides foul weather? Gent. One minded like the weather, moft Kent. I know you: where's the King? [unquietly. That things might change or ceafe: tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blafts with eyeless rage Catch in their fury, and make nothing of. This night, in which the cub-drawn bear* would couch, The lion, and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their furr dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will, take all. Kent. But who is with him? Gent. None but the fool, who labours to out-jeft His heart-ftruck injuries. Kent. Sir, I do know you, And dare upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There's divifion (Although as yet the face of it is cover'd By cub-drawn bear muft be understood the fhe-lear drawn dry by the fucking of her cubs, and thence moft ravenous and greedy of prey. With mutual craft) 'twixt Albany and Cornwall:† Now to you: If on my credit you dare build fo far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find The King hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding, Gent. I'll talk further with you. Kent. No, do not: For confirmation that I am much more That yet you do not know. Fie on this ftorm! Gent. Give me your hand, have you no more to fay? That, when we have found the King, (for which you take That way, I this :) he that first lights on him, Holla the other. Storm fill. Enter Lear and Fool. [Exeunt, Lear. Blow winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes fpout twixt Albany and Cornwall: Who have (as who have not, whom their great fars Which are to Frame the fpies and fpeculations "T 'Till you have drencht our steeples, drown'd the cocks! Singe my white head! And thou all-fhaking thunder, Crack nature's mould, all germins spill at once Fool. O nuncle, court-holy-water in a dry houfe is better than the rain-water out o' door. Good nuncle, in, afk thy daughters bleffing; here's a night that pities neither wife men nor fools. Lear. Rumble thy belly full, fpit fire, fpout rain! That have with two pernicious daughters join'd Fool. He that has a houfe to put's head in, has a good head-piece : The cod-piece that will houfe, before the head has any : For there was never yet fair woman, but he made mouths in a glaís, SCENE III. To them, Enter Kent. Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience, I will fay nothing. Kent. Who's there? Fool. Marry, here's grace, and a cod-piece, that's a wife man and a fool. Kent. Alas, Sir, are you here? things that love night, Love not fuch nights as thefe: the wrathful skies Gallow the very wand'rers of the dark, And make them keep their saves: fince I was man, N Such Such fheets of fire, fuch burfts of horrid thunder, Lear. Let the great Gods, That keep this dreadful thund'ring o'er our heads, Unwhipt of juftice! Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Kent. Alack, bare-headed? I am a man, Gracious my Lord, hard by here is a hovel, Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempeft: (More hard than is the ftone whereof 'tis rais'd; Lear. My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy. How doft, my boy? art cold? That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel; Poor fool and knave, I've one ftring in my heart That's forry yet for thee. Fool. He that has and a little tiny wit, With beigh bo, the wind and the rain, Lear. True, my good boy: come, bring us to this hovel. Fool. 'Tis a brave night to cool a courtezan. I'll speak a prophecy or e'er I go; When priefts are more in words than matter, [Exit. When |