Lear. Wilt breake my heart? Kent. I had rather breake mine owne, Good my Lord enter
Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storme Inuades vs to the skin so: 'tis to thee, But where the greater malady is fixt, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a Beare, But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, Thou'dst meete the Beare i'th' mouth, when the mind's free, The bodies delicate: the tempest in my mind, Doth from my sences take all feeling else, Saue what beates there, Filliall ingratitude, Is it not as this mouth should teare this hand For lifting food too't? But I will punish home; No, I will weepe no more; in such a night, To shut me out? Poure on, I will endure: In such a night as this? O Regan, Gonerill, Your old kind Father, whose franke heart gaue all, O that way madnesse lies, let me shun that: No more of that
Kent. Good my Lord enter here
Lear. Prythee go in thy selfe, seeke thine owne ease, This tempest will not giue me leaue to ponder On things would hurt me more, but Ile goe in, In Boy, go first. You houselesse pouertie, Enter.
Nay get thee in; Ile pray, and then Ile sleepe. Poore naked wretches, where so ere you are That bide the pelting of this pittilesse storme, How shall your House-lesse heads, and vnfed sides, Your lop'd, and window'd raggednesse defend you From seasons such as these? O I haue tane Too little care of this: Take Physicke, Pompe, Expose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele, That thou maist shake the superflux to them, And shew the Heauens more iust. Enter Edgar, and Foole.
Edg. Fathom, and halfe, Fathom and halfe; poore Tom
Foole. Come not in heere Nuncle, here's a spirit, helpe me, helpe me
Kent. Giue my thy hand, who's there? Foole. A spirite, a spirite, he sayes his name's poore Tom
Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i'th' straw? Come forth
Edg. Away, the foule Fiend followes me, through the sharpe Hauthorne blow the windes. Humh, goe to thy bed and warme thee
Lear. Did'st thou giue all to thy Daughters? And art thou come to this? Edgar. Who giues any thing to poore Tom? Whom the foule fiend hath led through Fire, and through Flame, through Sword, and Whirle-Poole, o're Bog, and Quagmire, that hath laid Kniues vnder his Pillow, and Halters in his Pue, set Rats-bane by his Porredge, made him Proud of heart, to ride on a Bay trotting Horse, ouer foure incht Bridges, to course his owne shadow for a Traitor. Blisse thy fiue Wits, Toms a cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de, blisse thee from Whirle-Windes, Starre-blasting, and taking, do poore Tom some charitie, whom the foule Fiend vexes. There could I haue him now, and there, and there againe, and there.
Storme still.
Lear. Ha's his Daughters brought him to this passe? Could'st thou saue nothing? Would'st thou giue 'em all? Foole. Nay, he reseru'd a Blanket, else we had bin all sham'd
Lea. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous ayre Hang fated o're mens faults, light on thy Daughters
Kent. He hath no Daughters Sir
Lear. Death Traitor, nothing could haue subdu'd Nature To such a lownesse, but his vnkind Daughters. Is it the fashion, that discarded Fathers, Should haue thus little mercy on their flesh: Iudicious punishment, 'twas this flesh begot Those Pelicane Daughters
Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, alow: alow, loo, loo
Foole. This cold night will turne vs all to Fooles, and Madmen
Edgar. Take heed o'th' foule Fiend, obey thy Parents, keepe thy words Iustice, sweare not, commit not, with mans sworne Spouse: set not thy Sweet-heart on proud array. Tom's a cold