A Heath. |
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A storm, with thunder and lightning. Enter KENT and a Gentleman, meeting. |
Kent. Who's here, beside foul weather? |
Gent. One minded like the weather, most unquietly. |
Kent. I know you. Where's the king? |
Gent. Contending with the fretful elements; |
Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, |
Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main, |
That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, |
Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, |
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of; |
Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn |
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 out-jest |
His heart-struck injuries. |
Kent. Sir, I do know you; |
And dare, upon the warrant of my note, |
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 Corn-wall; |
Who have—as who have not, that their great stars |
Thron'd and set high—servants, who seem no less, |
Which are to France the spies and speculations |
Intelligent of our state; what hath been seen, |
Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes, |
Or the hard rein which both of them have borne |
Against the old kind king; or something deeper, |
Whereof perchance these are but furnishings; |
But, true it is, from France there comes a power |
Into this scatter'd kingdom; who already, |
Wise in our negligence, have secret feet, |
In Some of our best ports, and are at point |
To show their open banner. Now to you: |
If on my credit you dare build so far |
To make your speed to Dover, you shall find |
Some that will thank you, making just report |
Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow |
The king hath cause to plain. |
I am a gentleman of blood and breeding, |
And from some knowledge and assurance offer |
This office to you. |
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 |
What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia,— |
As doubt not but you shall,—show her this ring, |
And she will tell you who your fellow is |
That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! |
I will go seek the king. |
Gent. Give me your hand. Have you no more to say? |
Kent. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet; |
That, when we have found the king,—in which your pain |
That way, I'll this,—he that first lights on him |
Holla the other. [Exeunt severally. |
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