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George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].
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SCENE VI. Enter Edgar, disguis'd like a madman, and Fool.

Edg.

Fathom and half, fathom and half! poor Tom.

Fool.

Come not in here nuncle, here's a spirit, help me, help me.

Kent.

Give me thy hand, who's there?

Fool.

A spirit, a spirit, he says his name's poor Tom.

Kent.

What art thou that do'st grumble there i'th' straw? come forth.

-- 61 --

Edg.

Away, the foul fiend follows me. Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humph, go to thy bed and warm thee.

Lear.

Didst thou give all to thy daughters? and art thou come to this?

Edg.

Who gives any thing to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through d noteford and whirlpool, o'er bog and quagmire, that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pue; set ratsbane by his porredge, made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse, over four e noteinch'd bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor,—bless thy five wits, Tom's a-cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de, bless thee from whirl-winds, star-blasting, and taking, do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now, and there, and here again, and there.

[Storm still.

Lear.
Have his daughters brought him to this pass?
Could'st thou save nothing? didst thou give 'em all?

Fool.
Nay, he reserv'd a blanket, else we had been all shamed.

Lear.
Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air
Hang fated o'er men's faults, light on thy daughters!

Kent.
He hath no daughters, Sir.

Lear.
Death, traitor, nothing could have subdu'd nature
To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters.
Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers
Should have thus little mercy on their flesh?
Judicious punishment! 'twas this flesh begot
Those pelican daughters.

Edg.
Pillicock sat on pillicock-hill, alow, alow, loo, loo.

Fool.

This cold night will turn us all to fools, and mad-men.

Edg.

Take heed o'th' foul fiend, obey thy parents, keep thy word justly, swear not, commit not with man's sworn spouse; set not thy sweet-heart on proud array. Tom's a-cold.

-- 62 --

Lear.

What hast thou been?

Edg.

A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curl'd my hair, wore gloves in my cap, serv'd the lust of my mistress's heart, and did the act of darkness with her: swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heav'n. One that slept in the contriving lust, and wak'd to do it. Wine lov'd I f notedeeply; dice dearly; and in woman, out-paramour'd the Turk. False of heart, light of ear, bloodyg note of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes, nor the rustling of silks, betray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender's books, and defie the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind: says suum, mun, nonny, dolphin my boy, boy, Sessey: let him trot by.

[Storm still.

Lear.

Thou wert better in a grave, than to answer with thy uncover'd body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here's three of us are sophisticated. Thou art the thing it self; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off you lendings: come, unbutton here.

[Tearing off his cloaths.

Fool.

Pr'ythee nuncle be contented; 'tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild field, were like an old letcher's heart, a small spark, and all the rest on's body cold; look, here comes a walking fire.

Edg.

This is the foul Flibbertigibbet; he begins at curfew, and walks 'till the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the hair-lip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of the earth.



Swithold footed thrice the old;
He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold,

-- 63 --


Bid her alight, and her troth plight,
And aroynt thee witch, aroynt thee.

Kent.

How fares your grace?

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George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].
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