Where is my lord of Gloster?

Re-enter GLOster.

Corn. Follow'd the old man forth: he is return'd.

Glos. The king is in high rage.

Corn.

Whither is he going?

Glos. 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. Glos. Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds

Do sorely ruffle for many miles about

There's scarce a bush.

Re.

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; 'tis a wild

night;

My Regan counsels well: come out o' the storm.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE 1.

A heath.

A storm is heard, with thunder and lightning. Enter
KENT and GENTLEMAN, meeting.

Kent. Who's here, beside foul weather?
Gen. One minded like the weather, most un-

quietly.

Kent. I know you: where's the king?

Gen. Contending with the fretful element:
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 bear1 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?

1 i. e. a bear, whose dugs are drawn dry by its young.

Gen. None but the fool, who labors to outjest His heart-struck injuries.

Kent.

Sir, I do know you;

And dare, upon the warrant of my art,

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 packings1 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; 2
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;

1 Snuffs are dislikes, and packings underhand contrivances. 2 Samples.

And, from some knowlege and assurance, offer
This office to you.

Gen. I will talk farther with you.
Kent.

No, do not.
For confirmation that I am much more
Than my outwall, 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.

Gen. 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,

Lear. Blow, wind, 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 1 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 2 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 men nor fools.

Lear. Rumble thy bellyfull! 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; 3 why 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 his 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.