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Into this scatter'd kingdom; and are at point
Gent. Have you no more to say ?
Kent. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet,That, when we've found the king,-he that first
lights on him Holloa the other.
SCENE 2.-Another part of the Heath, with a Hovel.
LOW, winds, and crack your cheeks ! rage!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the
cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking
Fool. O nuncle, in and ask thy daughters' blessing: here's a night pities neither wise men nor fools.
Lear. Rumble thy bellyfull! Spit, fire ! spout rain!
Fool. He that has a house to put's head in has a good head-piece.
Kent. [within.] Who's there?
Kent. Alas, sir, are you here ? Alack, bare-headed !
My wits begin to turn.-
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
Though the rain it raineth every day.
Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good my lord,
Let me alone. Kent. Good my lord, enter here. Leav.
Wilt break my heart?
Good my lord, enter here. Lear. Prithee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease: This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more.—But I'll go
in[To the Fool.] In, boy; go first. You houseless
poverty, Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep.
Fool goes in. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp ; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou may'st shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just.
Fool. [Within.] Help! Help!
Edgar. Within.] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom !
[The Fool runs out from the hovel. Fool. Come not in here, nuncle, here's a spirit. Help me, help me!
Kent. Give me thy hand.-Who's there?
Fool. A spirit, a spirit: he says his name's poor Tom.
Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i' the straw ? Come forth.
Enter EDGAR disguised as a madman. Edg. Away the foul fiend follows me!
Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind Hum! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.
Lear. Didst thou give all to thy two daughters? And art thou come to this ?
Edg. Who gives anything to poor Tom ? whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o'er bog and quagmire; that hath made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inch'd bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits!—Tom's a-cold,- do de, do de, do de.-Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes :there could I have him now,-and there,-and there again, and there. Lear. What, have his daughters brought him to
this pass ?-Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air Hang fated o'er men's faults, light on thy daughters.
Kent. He hath no daughters, sir.
nature To such a lowness but his únkind daughters.Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncover'd body this extremity of the skies.-Is man no more than this ? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the wc ? no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume.Ha! here's three on's are sophisticated !—Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.-Off, off, you lendings !--come, unbutton here.
(Tearing off his clothes. Fool. Prithee, nuncle, be contented; 'tis a naughty night to swim in.-Look, here comes a walking fire.
Edg. This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth.
Swithold footed thrice the wold;
Bid her alight,
And her troth plight,
Enter GLOSTER with a torch.
Glo. What, are you there? Your names ?
Edg. Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog.
But mice and rats, and such small deer,
Have been Tom's food for seven long year. Beware my follower.--- Peace, Smulkin ; peace, thou fiend. Glo. What, hath your grace no better company
? Edg. Poor Tom's a-cold.