King Lear

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.

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

[Enter Kent.]


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 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 man 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, 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.
[Singing.]
   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, 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;