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!

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 neither wise men nor fools.

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!

He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece.

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.

No, I will be the pattern of all patience;

I will say nothing.

Who’s there?

Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a

fool.

Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night

Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies

Gallow the very wanderers of the dark,

And make them keep their caves. Since I was man,

Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,

Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never

Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry

Th’affliction, nor the fear.

Let the great gods,

That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads,

Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,

That hast within thee undivulged crimes

Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand;

Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue

That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake

That under covert and convenient seeming

Hast practis’d on man’s life: close pent-up guilts,

Rive your concealing continents, and cry

These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man

More sinn’d against than sinning.

Alack, bareheaded!

Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;

Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest:

Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,—

More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d;

Which even but now, demanding after you,

Denied me to come in,—return, and force

Their scanted courtesy.

My wits begin to turn.

Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?

I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow?

The art of our necessities is strange,

That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel.

Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart

That’s sorry yet for thee.

He that has and a little tiny wit,

With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain,

Must make content with his fortunes fit,

Though the rain it raineth every day.

True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.

This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. I’ll speak a prophecy

ere I go:

When priests are more in word than matter;

When brewers mar their malt with water;

When nobles are their tailors’ tutors;

No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors;

When every case in law is right;

No squire in debt, nor no poor knight;

When slanders do not live in tongues;

Nor cut-purses come not to throngs;

When usurers tell their gold i’ the field;

And bawds and whores do churches build,

Then shall the realm of Albion

Come to great confusion:

Then comes the time, who lives to see’t,

That going shall be us’d with feet.

This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.