Kent.
Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter;
The tyranny of open night's too rough
For nature to endure. [Storm still.

Lear.
Let me alone.

Kent.
Good my lord, enter here.

Lear.
Wilt break my heart?

Kent.
I'd rather break mine own; good my lord enter.

Lear.
Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm
Invades us to the skin; so 'tis to thee;
But where the greater malady is fixt,
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear,
But if thy flight light toward the roaring sea
Thou'dst meet the bear i'th' mouth; when the mind's free,
The body's delicate; the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else,
Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude!
Is it not, as this mouth should tear this hand

For lifting food to't?—But I'll punish home;
No, I will weep no more—in such a night,
To shut me out?—pour on, I will endure:
In such a night as this? O Regan, Gonerill,
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all—
O that way madness lyes, let me shun that,
No more of that.

Kent.
Good my lord, enter here.

Lear.
Pr'ythee go in thy self, seek thine own ease,
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder
On things would hurt me more—but I'll go in,
In boy, go first. You houseless poverty—
Nay, get thee in; I'll pray, and then I'll sleep—
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?—O I have ta'en
Too little care of this! take physick, pomp,
Expose thy self to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may'st shake the superflux to them,
And shew the heav'ns more just.

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