Another Part of the Heath. Storm still. |
| |
Enter LEAR and Fool. |
| Lear. Blow, winds, 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, |
| Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, |
| Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, |
| Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! |
| Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once |
| That make ingrateful man! |
| 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 man nor fool. |
| Lear. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! |
| Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters: |
| I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; |
| I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children, |
| You owe me no subscription: then, let fall |
| Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave, |
| A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man. |
| But yet I call you servile ministers, |
| That have with two pernicious daughters join'd |
| Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head |
| So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul. |
Fool. He that has a house to put his head in has a good head-piece.| | The cod-piece that will house |
| Before the head has any, |
| The head and he shall louse; |
| So beggars marry many. |
| The man that makes his toe |
| What he his heart should make, |
| 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 |
| Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, |
| And make them keep their caves. Since I was man |
| Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, |
| Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never |
| Remember to have heard; man's nature cannot carry |
| The affliction nor the fear. |
| Lear. Let the great gods, |
| That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, |
| Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, |
| That hast within thee undivulged crimes, |
| Unwhipp'd of justice; hide thee, thou bloody hand; |
| Thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue |
| That art incestuous; caitiff, to pieces shake, |
| That under covert and convenient seeming |
| Hast practis'd on man's life; close pent-up guilts, |
| Rive your concealing continents, and cry |
| These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man |
| More sinn'd against than sinning. |
| Kent. Alack! bare-headed! |
| Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; |
| Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest; |
| Repose you there while I to this hard house,— |
| More harder than the stone whereof 'tis rais'd,— |
| Which even but now, demanding after you, |
| Denied me to come in, return and force |
| Their scanted courtesy. |
| 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 |
| That's sorry yet for thee. |
Fool. | | He that has a little tiny wit, |
| With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, |
| Must make content with his fortunes fit, |
| Though 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 I go: |
| When priests are more in word than matter; |
| When brewers mar their malt with water; |
| When nobles are their tailors' tutors; |
| No heretics burn'd, but wenches' suitors; |
| When every case in law is right; |
| No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; |
| When slanders do not live in tongues; |
| Nor cutpurses come not to throngs; |
| When usurers tell their gold i' the field; |
| And bawds and whores do churches build; |
| Then shall the realm of Albion |
| Come to great confusion: |
| Then comes the time, who lives to see't, |
| That going shall be us'd with feet. |
| This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time. [Exit. |
Design © 1995-2007 ZeFLIP.com All rights reserved.