ACT III.

       Table of Contents

      SCENE I. A Heath.

       [A storm with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, meeting.]

       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; tears his white hair,

       Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,

       Catch in their fury and make nothing of;

       Strives in his little world of man to outscorn

       The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.

       This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,

       The lion and the belly-pinched wolf

       Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,

       And bids what will take all.

       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 be cover’d

       With mutual cunning, ‘twixt Albany and Cornwall;

       Who have,—as who have not, that their great stars

       Throne 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 borne

       Against the old kind king; or something deeper,

       Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings;—

       But, true it is, from France there comes a power

       Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already,

       Wise in our negligence, have secret feet

       In some of our best ports, and are at point

       To show their open banner.—Now to you:

       If on my credit you dare build so far

       To make your speed to Dover, you shall find

       Some that will thank you making just report

       Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow

       The king hath cause to plain.

       I am a gentleman of blood and breeding;

       And from some knowledge and assurance offer

       This office to you.

       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,—show her this ring;

       And she will tell you who your fellow is

       That yet you do not know. Fie 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

       Holla the other.

       [Exeunt severally.]

       SCENE II. Another part of the heath. Storm continues.

       [Enter Lear and Fool.]

       Lear.

       Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

       You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

       Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!

       You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,

       Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

       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!

       Fool. O nuncle, court holy water in a dry house is better than this rain water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here’s a night pities nether wise men nor fools.

       Lear.

       Rumble thy bellyful! 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 battles ‘gainst a head

       So old and white as this! O! O! ‘tis foul!

       Fool.

       He that has a house to put ‘s head in has a good headpiece.

       The codpiece that will house

       Before the head has any,

       The head and he shall louse:

       So beggars marry many.

       The 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.

       [Enter Kent.]

       Kent.

       Who’s