Shakespeare - First Folio facsimile (1910)/The Tragedy of King Lear/Act 3 Scene 4
Scena Quarta.
Enter Lady.
Enter Lear, Kent, and Foole.
Kent.
Here is the place my Lord, good my Lord enter,
The tirrany of the open night's too rough
For Nature to endure.Storme still
Lear.
Let me alone.
Kent.
Good my Lord enter here.
Lear.
Wilt breake my heart?
Kent.
I had rather breake mine owne,
Good my Lord enter.
Lear.
Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storme
Inuades vs to the skin so: 'tis to thee,
But where the greater malady is fixt,
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a Beare,
But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,
Thou'dst meete the Beare i'th' mouth, when the mind's free,
The bodies delicate: the tempest in my mind,
Doth from my sences take all feeling else,
Saue what beates there, Filliall ingratitude,
Is it not as this mouth should teare this hand
For lifting food too't? But I will punish home;
No, I will weepe no more; in such a night,
To shut me out? Poure on, I will endure:
In such a night as this? O Regan, Gonerill,
Your old kind Father, whose franke heart gaue all,
O that way madnesse lies, let me shun that:
No more of that.
Kent.
Good my Lord enter here.
Lear.
Prythee go in thy selfe, seeke thine owne ease,
This tempest will not giue me leaue to ponder
On things would hurt me more, but Ile goe in,
In Boy, go first. You houselesse pouertie,Exit.
Nay get thee in; Ile pray, and then Ile sleepe.
Poore naked wretches, where so ere you are
That bide the pelting of this pittilesse storme,
How shall your House‐lesse heads, and vnfed sides,
Your lop'd, and window'd raggednesse defend you
From seasons such as these? O I haue tane
Too little care of this: Take Physicke, Pompe,
Expose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele,
That thou maist shake the superflux to them,
And shew the Heauens more iust.
Enter Edgar, and Foole.
Edg.
Fathom, and halfe, Fathom and halfe; poore Tom.
Foole.
Come not in heere Nuncle, here's a spirit, helpe me, helpe me.
Kent.
Giue my thy hand, who's there?
Foole.
A spirite, a spirite, he sayes his name's poore Tom.
Kent.
What art thou that dost grumble there i'th' straw? Come forth.
Edg.
Away, the foule Fiend followes me, through the sharpe Hauthorne blow the windes. Humh, goe to thy bed and warme thee.
Lear.
Did'st thou giue all to thy Daughters? And art thou come to this?
Edgar.
Who giues any thing to poore Tom? Whom the foule fiend hath led through Fire, and through Flame, through Sword, and Whirle‐Poole, o're Bog, and Quagmire, that hath laid Kniues vnder his Pillow, and Halters in his Pue, set Rats‐bane by his Porredge, made him Proud of heart, to ride on a Bay trotting Horse, ouer foure incht Bridges, to course his owne shadow for a Traitor. Blisse thy fiue Wits, Toms a cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de, blisse thee from Whirle‐Windes, Starre‐blasting, and taking, do poore Tom some charitie, whom the foule Fiend vexes. There could I haue him now, and there, and there againe, and there. Storme still.
Lear.
Ha's his Daughters brought him to this passe?
Could'st thou saue nothing? Would'st thou giue 'em all?
Foole.
Nay, he reseru'd a Blanket, else we had bin all sham'd.
Lea.
Now all the plagues that in the pendulous ayre
Hang fated o're mens faults, light on thy Daughters.
Kent.
He hath no Daughters Sir.
Lear.
Death Traitor, nothing could haue subdue'd Nature
To such a lownesse, but his vnkind Daughters.
Is it the fashion, that discarded Fathers,
Should haue thus little mercy on their flesh:
Iudicious punishment, 'twas this flesh begot
Those Pelicane Daughters.
Edg.
Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, alow: alow, loo, loo.
Foole.
This cold night will turne vs all to Fooles, and Madmen.
Edgar.
Take heed o'th' foule Fiend, obey thy Parents, keepe thy words Iustice, sweare not, commit not,
with mans sworne Spouse: set not thy Sweet‐heart on proud array. Tom's a cold.
Lear.
What hast thou bin?
Edg.
A Seruingman? Proud in heart, and minde; that curl'd my haire, wore Gloues in my cap; seru'd the Lust of my Mistris heart, and did the acte of darkenesse with her. Swore as many Oathes, as I spake words, & broke them in the sweet face of Heauen. One, that slept in the contriuing of Lust, and wak'd to doe it. Wine lou'd I deerely, Dice deerely; and in Woman, out‐Paramour'd the Turke. False of heart, light of eare, bloody of hand; Hog in sloth, Foxe in stealth, Wolfe in greedinesse, Dog in madnes, Lyon in prey. Let not the creaking of shooes, Nor the rustling of Silkes, betray thy poore heart to woman. Keepe thy foote out of Brothels, thy hand out of Plackets, thy pen from Lenders Bookes, and defye the foule Fiend. Still through the Hauthorne blowes the cold winde: Sayes suum, mun, nonny, Dolphin my Boy, Boy Sesey: let him trot by.Storme still.
Lear.
Thou wert better in a Graue, then to answere with thy vncouer'd body, this extremitie of the Skies. Is man no more then this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the Worme no Silke; the Beast, no Hide; the Sheepe, no Wooll; the Cat, no perfume. Ha? Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing it selfe; vnaccommodated man, is no more but such a poore, bare, forked Animall as thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, vnbutton heere.
Enter Gloucester, with a Torch.
Foole.
Prythee Nunckle be contented, 'tis a naughtie night to swimme in. Now a little fire in a wilde Field, were like an old Letchers heart, a small spark, all the rest on's body, cold: Looke, heere comes a walking fire.
Edg.
This is the foule Flibbertigibbet; hee begins at Curfew, and walkes at first Cocke: Hee giues the Web and the Pin, squints the eye, and makes the Hare‐lippe; Mildewes the white Wheate, and hurts the poore Creature of earth.
Swithold footed thrice the old,
He met the Night‐Mare, and her nine‐fold;
Bid her a‐light, and her troth‐plight,
And aroynt thee Witch, aroynt thee.
Kent.
How fares your Grace?
Lear.
What's he?
Kent.
Who's there? What is't you seeke?
Glou.
What are you there? Your Names?
Edg.
Poore Tom, that eates the swimming Frog, the Toad, the Tod‐pole, the wall‐Neut, and the water: that in the furie of his heart, when the foule Fiend rages, eats Cow‐dung for Sallets; swallowes the old Rat, and the ditch‐Dogge; drinkes the green Mantle of the standing Poole: who is whipt from Tything to Tything, and stockt, punish'd, and imprison'd: who hath three Suites to his backe, sixe shirts to his body:
Horse to ride, and weapon to weare:
But Mice, and Rats, and such small Deare,
Haue bin Toms food, for seuen long yeare:
Beware my Follower. Peace Smulkin, peace thou Fiend.
Glou.
What, hath your Grace no better company?
Edg.
The Prince of Darkenesse is a Gentleman. Modo he's call'd, and Mahu.
Glou.
Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is growne so vilde, that it doth hate what gets it.
Edg.
Poore Tom's a cold.
Glou.
Go in with me; my duty cannot suffer
T'obey in all your daughters hard commands:
Though their Iniunction be to barre my doores,
And let this Tyrannous night take hold vpon you,
Yet haue I ventured to come seeke you out,
And bring you where both fire, and food is ready.
Lear.
First let me talke with this Philosopher,
What is the cause of Thunder?
Kent.
Good my Lord take his offer,
Go into th'house.
Lear.
Ile talke a word with this same lerned Theban:
What is your study?
Edg.
How to preuent the Fiend, and to kill Vermine.
Lear.
Let me aske you one word in priuate.
Kent.
Importune him once more to go my Lord,
His wits begin t'vnsettle.
Glou.
Canst thou blame him?Storm still
His Daughters seeke his death: Ah, that good Kent,
He said it would be thus: poore banish'd man:
Thou sayest the King growes mad, Ile tell thee Friend
I am almost mad my selfe. I had a Sonne,
Now out‐law'd from my blood: he sought my life
But lately: very late: I lou'd him (Friend)
No Father his Sonne deerer: true to tell thee,
The greefe hath craz'd my wits. What a night's this?
I do beseech your grace.
Lear.
O cry you mercy, Sir:
Noble Philosopher, your company.
Edg.
Tom's a cold.
Glou.
In fellow there, into th'Houel; keep thee warm.
Lear.
Come, let's in all.
Kent.
This way, my Lord.
Lear.
With him;
I will keepe still with my Philosopher.
Kent.
Good my Lord, sooth him:
Let him take the Fellow.
Glou.
Take him you on.
Kent.
Sirra, come on: go along with vs.
Lear.
Come, good Athenian.
Glou.
No words, no words, hush.
Edg.
Childe Rowland to the darke Tower came,
His word was still, fie, foh, and fumme,
I smell the blood of a Brittish man.Exeunt.