Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws
Or ere I'll weep. O fool! I shall go mad.
[Exeunt LEAR, GLOUCESTER, KENT, and Fool.
Corn. Let us withdraw, 't will be a storm.

[Storm heard at a distance. Reg. This house is little: the old man and his people

Cannot be well bestow'd.

Gon. "T is 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 purposed.

Where is my Lord of Gloucester?

Corn. Follow'd the old man forth. He is return'd.

Re-enter GLOUCESTER.

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 abused, wisdom bids fear.

Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord; 't is 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, beside 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 out-scorn
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
Throned 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 scatter'd 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 the storm!
I will go seek the king.

Gent. Give me your hand.
to say?

Have you no more

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 IL 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 sulphurous 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' the world!
Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once
That make 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 neither wise man nor fool.

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 despised old man.
But yet I call you servile ministers,

That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
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 cod-piece 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 cod-piece; that's a wise man and a fool.

Kent. Alas! sir, are you here? things that love