第 11 节

, giue me that patience, patience I need, You see me heere (you Gods) a poore old man, As full of griefe as age, wretched in both, If it be you that stirres these Daughters hearts Against their Father, foole me not so much, To beare it tamely: touch me with Noble anger, And let not womens weapons, water drops, Staine my mans cheekes. No you vnnaturall Hags, I will haue such reuenges on you both, That all the world shall- I will do such things, What they are yet, I know not, but they shalbe The terrors of the earth? you thinke Ile weepe, No, Ile not weepe, I haue full cause of weeping.

Storme and Tempest.

But this heart shal break into a hundred thousand flawes Or ere Ile weepe; O Foole, I shall go mad.

Exeunt.

Corn. Let vs withdraw, 'twill be a Storme

Reg. This house is little, the old man and's people, Cannot be well bestow'd

Gon. 'Tis his owne blame hath put himselfe from rest, And must needs taste his folly

Reg. For his particular, Ile receiue him gladly, But not one follower

Gon. So am I purpos'd, Where is my Lord of Gloster? Enter Gloster.

Corn. Followed the old man forth, he is return'd

Glo. The King is in high rage

Corn. Whether is he going? Glo. He cals to Horse, but will I know not whether

Corn. 'Tis best to giue him way, he leads himselfe

Gon. My Lord, entreate him by no meanes to stay

Glo. Alacke the night comes on, and the high windes Do sorely ruffle, for many Miles about There's scarce a Bush

Reg. O Sir, to wilfull men, The iniuries that they themselues procure, Must be their Schoole-Masters: shut vp your doores, He is attended with a desperate traine, And what they may incense him too, being apt, To haue his eare abus'd, wisedome bids feare

Cor. Shut vp your doores my Lord, 'tis a wil'd night, My Regan counsels well: come out oth' storme.

Exeunt.

Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.

Storme still. Enter Kent, and a Gentleman, seuerally.

Kent. Who's there besides foule weather? Gen. One minded like the weather, most vnquietly

Kent. I know you: Where's the King? Gent. Contending with the fretfull Elements; Bids the winde blow the Earth into the Sea, Or swell the curled Waters 'boue the Maine, That things might change, or cease

Kent. But who is with him? Gent. None but the Foole, who labours to out-iest His heart-strooke iniuries

Kent. Sir, I do know you, And dare vpon the warrant of my note Commend a deere thing to you. There is diuision (Although as yet the face of it is couer'd With mutuall cunning) 'twixt Albany, and Cornwall: Who haue, as who haue not, that their great Starres Thron'd and set high; Seruants, who seeme no lesse, Which are to France the Spies and Speculations Intelligent of our State. What hath bin seene, Either in snuffes, and packings of the Dukes, Or the hard Reine which both of them hath borne Against the old kinde King; or something deeper, Whereof (perchance) these are but furnishings

Gent. I will talke further with you

Kent. No, do not: For confirmation that I am much more Then my out-wall; open this Purse, and take What it containes. If you shall see Cordelia, (As feare not but you shall) shew her this Ring, And she will tell you who that Fellow is That yet you do not know. Fye on this Storme, I will go seeke the King

Gent. Giue me your hand, Haue you no more to say? Kent. Few words, but to effect more then all yet; That when we haue found the King, in which your pain That way, Ile this: He that first lights on him, Holla the other.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

Storme still. Enter Lear, and Foole.

Lear. Blow windes, & crack your cheeks; Rage, blow You Cataracts, and Hyrricano's spout, Till you haue drench'd our Steeples, drown the Cockes. You Sulph'rous and Thought-executing Fires, Vaunt-curriors of Oake-cleauing Thunder-bolts, Sindge my white head. And thou all-shaking Thunder, Strike flat the thicke Rotundity o'th' world, Cracke Natures moulds, all germaines spill at once That makes ingratefull Man

Foole. O Nunkle, Court holy-water in a dry house, is better then this Rain-water out o' doore. Good Nunkle, in, aske thy Daughters blessing, heere's a night pitties neither Wisemen, nor Fooles

Lear. Rumble thy belly full: spit Fire, spowt Raine: Nor Raine, Winde, Thunder, Fire are my Daughters; I taxe not you, you Elements with vnkindnesse. I neuer gaue you Kingdome, call'd you Children; You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Heere I stand your Slaue, A poore, infirme, weake, and dispis'd old man: But yet I call you Seruile Ministers, That will with two pernicious Daughters ioyne Your high-engender'd Battailes, 'gainst a head So old, and white as this. O, ho! 'tis foule

Foole. He that has a house to put's head in, has a good Head-peece: The Codpiece that will house, before the head has any; The Head, and he shall Lowse: so Beggers marry many. The man y makes his Toe, what he his Hart shold make, Shall of a Corne cry woe, and turne his sleepe to wake. For there was neuer yet faire woman, but shee made mouthes in a glasse. Enter Kent

Lear. No, I will be the patterne of all patience, I will say nothing

Kent. Who's there? Foole. Marry here's Grace, and a Codpiece, that's a Wiseman, and a Foole

Kent. Alas Sir are you here? Things that loue night, Loue not such nights as these: The wrathfull Skies Gallow the very wanderers of the darke And make them keepe their Caues: Since I was man, Such sheets of Fire, such bursts of horrid Thunder, Such groanes of roaring Winde, and Raine, I neuer Remember to haue heard. Mans Nature cannot carry Th' affliction, nor the feare

Lear. Let the great Goddes That keepe this dreadfull pudder o're our heads, Finde out their enemies now. Tremble thou Wretch, That hast within thee vndivulged Crimes Vnwhipt of Iustice. Hide thee, thou Bloudy hand; Thou Periur'd, and thou Simular of Vertue That art Incestuous. Caytiffe, to peeces shake That vnder couert, and conuenient seeming Ha's practis'd on mans life. Close pent-vp guilts, Riue your concealing Continents, and cry These dreadfull Summoners grace. I am a man, More sinn'd against, then sinning

Kent. Alacke, bare-headed? Gracious my Lord, hard by heere is a Houell, Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the Tempest: Repose you there, while I to this hard house, (More harder then the stones whereof 'tis rais'd, Which euen but now, demanding after you, Deny'd me to come in) returne, and force Their scanted curtesie

Lear. My wits begin to turne. Come on my boy. How dost my boy? Art cold? I am cold my selfe. Where is this straw, my Fellow? The Art of our Necessities is strange, And can make vilde things precious. Come, your Houel; Poore Foole, and Knaue, I haue one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee

Foole. He that has and a little-tyne wit, With heigh-ho, the Winde and the Raine, Must make content with his Fortunes fit, Though the Raine it raineth euery day

Le. True Boy: Come bring vs to this Houell. En