King Lear Page #8

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Shut up your doors.

He is attended with a desperate train,

and what they may incense him to, being apt

to have his ear abused, wisdom bids fear.

Shut up your doors, my lord.

'Tis a wild night.

My Regan counsels well.

Come out of the storm.

Who's there besides foul weather?

One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

- I know you. Where's the King?

- Contending against the fretful elements.

- Who is with him?

- None but the fool,

who labours to out-jest

his heart-struck injuries.

Sir, I do know you,

and dare, upon the warrant of my note

commend a dear thing to you.

There is division, for though as yet the face

of it be covered with mutual cunning,

'twixt Albany and Cornwall, who both

have servants who would seem no less,

which are to France the spies and

speculations intelligent of our state.

From France there comes a power

into this scattered kingdom. Now, sir, to you.

If on my credit you dare build so far,

go, make your speed to Dover,

you shall find those that will thank you,

making just report

of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow

the King hath cause to make complaint.

- I will speak further with you.

- No, do not.

For confirmation that I am

much more than my out-wall,

if you shall see Cordelia, as fear not

but you shall, show her this ring,

and she will tell you who that fellow is

that yet you do not know.

- Give me your hand.

- I will go seek the King.

Fie on this storm!

Blow, winds...

and crack your cheeks!

Rage!

Blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes,

spout till you have drenched our steeples,

drowned the c*cks.

You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,

singe my white head.

And thou all-shaking thunder,

smite flat the thick rotundity o'the world,

crack Nature's moulds,

all germens spill at once

that make ingrateful man.

O nuncle, in.

Ask thy daughters' blessing.

This is a night pities

neither wise man nor fool.

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,

called you children.

You owe me no subscription.

Then let fall your horrible pleasure.

Here I stand, your slave,

a poor, infirm, weak

and despised old man.

And yet I call you servile ministers

that will, with two pernicious daughters,

join your high-engendered battles

'gainst a head as old and white as this.

O, ho! 'Tis foul!

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 #

For there was never yet fair woman

but she made mouths in a glass.

No...

I will be the pattern of all patience.

I will say nothing.

- Who's there?

- Marry, here's grace and a cod-piece,

that's a wise man and a fool.

Alas, sir, are you here? Things that

love night love not such nights as these.

Let the great gods,

that keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads

find out their enemies.

Now tremble, thou wretch

that hast within thee

undivulged crimes, unwhipped of justice.

Hide thee thou bloody hand,

thou perjured,

and thou art simular of virtue

that art incestuous.

Close pent-up guilts,

rive your concealing continents

and cry these dreadful summoners grace.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning.

Alack, bare-headed!

Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel.

Some friendship will it lend you

'gainst the tempest. Repose you there.

My wits begin to turn.

Come on, my boy.

How dost thou, boy? Art cold?

I am cold myself.

Where is this straw, my fellow?

The art of our necessities is strange

and can make vile things precious.

Come, your hovel. Poor knave and fool.

There's one part of my heart

that's sorry yet for thee.

# He that has and a little tiny wit

# With heigh-ho, heigh-ho

# The wind and the rain

must make content with his... #

Alack, alack, Edmund.

I like not this unnatural dealing.

When I desired their leave

that I might pity him,

they took from me

the use of mine own house,

charged me on pain of their perpetual

displeasure neither to speak of him,

entreat for him, or in any way sustain him.

- Most savage and unnatural!

- Go to. Say you nothing.

There is division between the dukes,

and a worse matter than that.

I have received a letter this night.

'Tis dangerous to be spoken.

He will lock the letter in my closet.

These injuries the King now bears

will be revenged home.

There is part of a power already footed.

We must incline to the King.

I will look him, and privily relieve him.

Go you, maintain talk with the Duke,

that my charity be not of him perceived.

If I die for it, as no less is threatened me,

the King my old master must be relieved.

There is strange things toward, Edmund.

Pray you... be careful.

This courtesy forbid thee

shall the Duke instantly know,

and of that letter too.

This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me

that which my father loses...

no less than all.

The younger rises when the old doth fall.

Here is the place, my lord.

Good my lord, enter.

The tyranny of the open night's too rough

for nature to endure.

- Let me alone.

- Good my lord, enter here.

- Wilt break my heart?

- I had rather break my own.

- Good my lord, enter.

- In, boy. Go first.

Nay, get thee in.

I'll pray and then I'll sleep.

Poor naked wretches,

whereso'er you are,

that bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,

how shall your houseless heads,

your unfed sides,

your looped and windowed raggedness,

defend you from seasons such as these?

O, I have taken too little care of this!

Take physic, pomp,

expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,

that thou mayst shake the superflux to them

and show the heavens more just.

Fathom and a half,

fathom and a half!

- Help me, help me!

- Give me thy hand. Who's there?

A spirit, a spirit!

He says his name is Poor Tom.

What art thou that dost grumble there

i'the straw? Come forth.

Away!

The foul fiend follows me!

Through the sharp hawthorn

blows the cold wind.

Go to thy bed and warm thee.

Didst thou give all to thy daughters

and art come to this?

Who gives any thing 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 laid knives under his pillow

and made him proud of heart, to ride on

a bay trotting-horse on a four-inch bridge?

Bless thy five wits! Tom's a-cold.

Bless thee from whirlwinds,

star-blasting and taking!

Do poor Tom some charity,

whom the foul fiend vexes.

There could I have him now,

and there again, and there!

What, has his daughters

brought him to this pass?

Couldst thou save nothing?

Wouldst thou give them all?

Nay, he reserved a blanket,

else we'd all been shamed.

Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air

hang fated o'er men's faults,

light on thy daughters!

- He hath no daughters, sir.

- Peace, traitor!

Nothing could have subdued nature

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