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 t' 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 furr dry; unbonnetted 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's division
(Although as yet the face of it is cover'd
With mutual cunning) 'twixt Albany and Cornwall:
Who have (as who have not, whom their great stars(25) ^note
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 born
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 sea
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 of you,
Offer this office.

Gent.
I'll 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) shew her that Ring,
And she will tell you who this 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 you take
That way, I this:) he that first lights on him,
Hollow the other. [Exeunt severally. Storm still. Enter Lear and Fool.

Lear.
Blow winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow!
You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout
'Till you have drencht our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunder-bolts,
Singe my white head. And thou all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o'th' world;
Crack nature's mould, all germins spill at once(26) ^note

That make ingrateful man.

Fool.

O nuncle, court-holy-water in a dry house is better than the rain-waters out o' door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters blessing: here's a night, that pities neither wise men nor fools.

Lear.
Rumble thy belly full, 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 have with two pernicious daughters joyn'd
Your high-engender'd battles, 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul.

Fool.

He that has a house to put's head in, has a good head-piece:

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 cod-piece, 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 wand'rers 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 force.

Lear.
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,(27) ^note


That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipt of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou Perjure, and thou Simular of virtue,(28) ^note

Kent.
Alack, bare-headed?
Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;
Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest:
Repose you there, while I to this hard house
(More hard than is the stone whereof 'tis rais'd;
Which even but now, demanding after you,
Denyed me to come in) return, and force
Their scanted courtesie.

Lear.
My wits begin to turn.
Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? art cold?
I'm cold my self. Where is the straw, my fellow?
The art of our necessities is strange,

That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel;
Poor fool and knave, I've one part in my heart,
That's sorry yet for thee.
Fool.
He that has an a little tynie wit,
With heigh ho, the wind and the rain;
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day.

Lear.
True, my good boy: come, bring us to this hovel. [Exit.

Fool.
'Tis a brave night to cool a curtezan.
I'll speak a prophecy, or ere I go;
When priests are more in words than matter,
When brewers marr their malt with water;
When nobles are their tailors tutors;
No hereticks 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,
And cut-purses 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 do live before his time. [Exit.

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