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.

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 is cover'd
With mutual cunning) 'twixt Albany and Cornwall:
Who have, as who have not, that their great Stars
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—

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, shew her that Ring,
And she will tell you who this Fellow is,
That yet you do not know. Fy 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 your pain
That way, I'll this: He that first lights on him,
Hollow the other. [Exeunt. Storm still. Enter Lear, and Fool.

Lear.
Blow Winds, and crack your Cheeks; Rage, blow
You Cataracts, and Hurricano's spout,
'Till you have drench'd our Steeples, drown the Cocks.
You Sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-curriors of Oak-cleaving Thunder-bolts,
Sindge my white head. And thou all-shaking Thunder,
Strike flat the thick Rotundity o'th' World,
Crack Nature's moulds, all Germains spill at once
That makes ingrateful Man.

Fool.

O Nuncle, Court-holy-water in a dry House, is better than the Rain-water out o'door. Good Nuncle, in, ask thy Daughter's blessing; here's a Night 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 will with two pernicious Daughters join
Your high-engender'd Battels, 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. O, ho! 'tis foul.

Fool.

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

That 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.

Kent.
Who's there?

Fool.

Marry here's Grace, and a Codpiece, that's a Wiseman, 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 pudder o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble thou Wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged Crimes
Unwhipt of Justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou Perjur'd, and thou Simular of Virtue
That art incestuous; Caitiff, to pieces shake
That under covert and convenient seeming
Has 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, 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 harder than the Stones whereof 'tis rais'd;
Which even but now, demanding after you,
Deny'd 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 am cold my self. Where is this Straw, my Fellow

The art of our Necessities is strange,
And can make vild things precious. Come, your Hovel;
Poor Fool, and Knave, I have one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee.
Fool.
He that has and a little tyne 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 Boy: come bring us to this Hovel. [Exit.

Fool.
This is a brave Night to cool a Curtizan:
I'll speak a Prophecy e'er 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,
Nor 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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