style="font-size:15px;"> You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age; wretched in both!
If it be you that stirs these daughters’ hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,
And let not women’s weapons, waterdrops,
Stain my man’s cheeks!—No, you unnatural hags,
I will have such revenges on you both
That all the world shall,—I will do such things,—
What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep;
No, I’ll not weep:—
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws
Or ere I’ll weep.—O fool, I shall go mad!
[Exeunt Lear, Gloster, Kent, and Fool. Storm heard at a distance.]
Corn.
Let us withdraw; ‘twill be a storm.
Reg.
This house is little: the old man and his people
Cannot be well bestow’d.
Gon.
‘Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest
And must needs taste his folly.
Reg.
For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly,
But not one follower.
Gon.
So am I purpos’d.
Where is my lord of Gloster?
Corn.
Followed the old man forth:—he is return’d.
[Re-enter Gloster.]
Glou.
The king is in high rage.
Corn.
Whither is he going?
Glou.
He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.
Corn.
‘Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.
Gon.
My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.
Glou.
Alack, the night comes on, and the high winds
Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about
There’s scarce a bush.
Reg.
O, sir, to wilful men
The injuries that they themselves procure
Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors:
He is attended with a desperate train;
And what they may incense him to, being apt
To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear.
Corn.
Shut up your doors, my lord; ‘tis a wild night:
My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm.
[Exeunt.]
ACT III.
SCENE I. A Heath.
[A storm with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, meeting.]
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 out-jest
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
Throne and set high?—servants, who seem no less,
Which are to France the spies and speculations
Intelligent of
