The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

ACT III. Scene I.

A heath.

Storm still. Enter Kent and a Gentleman at several doors.

Kent. Who’s there, besides 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 outscorn 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 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 Cornwall; 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 scattered 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 fear 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].

Scene II.

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 sulph’rous 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’ th’ world, Crack Nature’s moulds, all germains spill at once, That makes 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 nether wise men nor fools.

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 will with two pernicious daughters join 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 ‘s head in has a good head-piece.

The codpiece 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 codpiece; 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 Th’ affliction nor the fear.

Lear. 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 Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur’d, and thou simular man of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, in 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, bareheaded?

Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you ‘gainst the tempest.

Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house (More harder than the stones 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. [sings]

He that has and a little tiny wit-With hey, 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 courtesan. 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’ th’ 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.

Scene III.

Gloucester’s Castle.

Enter Gloucester and Edmund.

Glou. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing! When I desir’d their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house, charg’d me on pain of perpetual displeasure neither to speak of him, entreat for him, nor any way sustain him.

Edm. Most savage and unnatural!

Glou. Go to; say you nothing. There is division betwixt the Dukes, and a worse matter than that. I have received a letter this night- ‘tis dangerous to be spoken-I have lock’d the letter in my closet. These injuries the King now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed; we must incline to the King. I will seek him and privily relieve him. Go you and maintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of him perceived. If he ask for me, I am ill and gone to bed. Though I die for’t, as no less is threat’ned me, the King my old master must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund.

Pray you be careful. Exit.

Edm. 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. Exit.

Scene IV.

The heath. Before a hovel.

Storm still. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool.

Kent. Here is the place, my lord. Good my lord, enter.

The tyranny of the open night ‘s too rough For nature to endure.

Lear. Let me alone.

Kent. Good my lord, enter here.

Lear. Wilt break my heart?

Kent. I had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter.

Lear. Thou think’st ‘tis much that this contentious storm Invades us to the skin. So ‘tis to thee; But where the greater malady is fix’d, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, Thou’dst meet the bear i’ th’ mouth. When the mind’s free, The body’s delicate. The tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude!

Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to’t? But I will punish home!

No, I will weep no more. In such a night ‘To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.

In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!

Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all!

O, that way madness lies; let me shun that!

No more of that.

Kent. Good my lord, enter here.

Lear. Prithee go in thyself; seek thine own ease.

This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in.

[To the Fool] In, boy; go first.- You houseless poverty-Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep.

Exit [Fool].

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en 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.

Edg. [within] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!

Enter Fool [from the hovel].

Fool. Come not in here, nuncle, here’s a spirit. Help me, help me!

Kent. Give me thy hand. Who’s there?

Fool. A spirit, a spirit! He says his name’s poor Tom.

Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i’ th’ straw?

Come forth.

Enter Edgar [disguised as a madman].

Edg. Away! the foul fiend follows me! Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.

Lear. Hast thou given all to thy two daughters, and art thou come to this?

Edg. Who gives anything 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 halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge, made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inch’d bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom ‘s acold. O, do de, do de, do de. 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-and there again-and there!

Storm still.

Lear.