ACT III. SCENE I.-A heath. A storm is heard, with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent, and a Gentleman, meeting. Kent. Who's here, beside foul weather? Kent. I know you; where's the king? Gent. Contending with the fretful element : Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curved waters 'bove the main, That things might change, or cease; tears his white hair; Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Strives in his little world of man to out-scoru The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all. Kent. But who is with him? Gent. None but the fool; who labours to outjest His heart-struck injuries. Kent. Sir, I do know you; And dare, upon the warrant of my art, Commend a dear thing to you. There is division, Although as yet the face of it be cover'd With mutual cunning, 'twixt Albany and Cornwall ; Who have (as who have not, that their great stars Thron'd and set high?) servants, who seem no less; I am a gentleman of blood and breeding; Gent. I will talk further with you. Kent. No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my out wall, open this purse, and take Gent. Give me your hand: Have you no more to Kent. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet; That, when we have found the king, (in which your pain That [Exeunt severally. SCENE II.-Another part of the heath. Storm continues. Enter LEAR and Fool. Lear. Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Fool. O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o'door. Good 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! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters: Fool. He, that has a house to put his head in, has a good head-piece, The cod-piece that will house, The man that makes his toe Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. --for there was never yet fair woman, but she made mouths in a glass. Enter Kent. Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience, I will say nothing. Kent. Who's there? Fool. Marry, here's grace, and a cod-piece; that's a wise man, and a fool. Kent. Alas, sir, are you here? things, that love night, Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies And make them keep their caves: Since I was man, Lear. Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, Unwhipp'd of justice: hide thee, thou bloody hand; Hast practis'd on man's life:-Close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry Kent. Alack, bare-headed! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest; you, Denied me to come in,) return, and force Lear. My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy: How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself.-Where is this straw, my fellow ? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart Fool. He that has a little tiny wit, With heigh, ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit; For the rain it raineth every day. Lear. True, my good boy.-Come, bring us to this hovel. [Exeunt Lear and Kent. Fool. This is a brave night to cool a courtezan.— I'll speak a prophecy ere 1 go: When priests are more in word than matter; |