Lear. (C.)
Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout
'Till you have drench'd our steeples!
You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts,
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!

Kent. (L. C.)
Not all my best intreaties can persuade him
Into some needful shelter, or to 'bide
This poor slight cov'ring on his aged head,
Exposed to this wild war of earth and heav'n. [Thunder, lightning, and rain.

Lear.
Rumble thy fill! fight whirlwind, rain, and fire!
Not fire, wind, rain, or thunder, are my daughters:
I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdoms, called you children;
You owe me no obedience.—Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure!—Here I stand your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man.— [Rain, thunder, and lightning,
Yet I will call you servil ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high engender'd battle 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul!

Kent.
Hard by, sir, is a hovel, that will lend
Some shelter from this tempest.

Lear.
I will forget my nature. What! so kind a father!—
Ay, there's the point. [Rain, thunder, and lightning.

Kent. (C.)
Consider, good my liege, things that love night,
Love not such nights as this; these wrathful skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the dark,
And make them keep their caves: such drenching rain,
Such sheets of fire, such claps of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring winds, have ne'er been known. [Thunder very loud.

Lear.
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undiscovered crimes!—
Hide, hide, thou murd'rer, hide thy bloody hand!—
Thou perjur'd villain, holy hypocrite,
That drink'st the widow's tears, sigh now, and ask
These dreadful summoners grace!—I am a man
More sinn'd against, than sinning. [Crosses to R.

Kent.
Good sir, to th' hovel.

Lear. (R.)
My wits begin to turn. [Lightning, R.
Come on, my boy: How dost, my boy? art cold?
I'm cold myself: shew me this straw, my fellow;
The art of our necessity is strange,
And can make vile things precious—My poor knave,
Cold as I am at heart, I've one place there
That's sorry yet for thee. [Rain—Thunder—Lightning.—Exeunt R.

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