Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will

piece out the comfort with what addition I can: I will not be

long from you.

All the power of his wits have given way to his impatience:—

the gods reward your kindness!

Frateretto calls me; and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake

of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend.

Prythee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a

yeoman.

A king, a king!

No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he’s a mad

yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him.

To have a thousand with red burning spits

Come hissing in upon ’em.

The foul fiend bites my back.

He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health,

a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.

It shall be done; I will arraign them straight.

[_To Edgar._] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer;

[_To the Fool._] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she-foxes!—

Look, where he stands and glares! Want’st thou eyes at trial, madam?

Her boat hath a leak,

And she must not speak

Why she dares not come over to thee.

The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale.

Hoppedance cries in Tom’s belly for two white herring. Croak not, black

angel; I have no food for thee.

How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz’d;

Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions?

I’ll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence.

[_To Edgar._] Thou, robed man of justice, take thy place.

[_To the Fool._] And thou, his yokefellow of equity,

Bench by his side. [_To Kent._] You are o’ the commission,

Sit you too.

Let us deal justly.

Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd?

Thy sheep be in the corn;

And for one blast of thy minikin mouth

Thy sheep shall take no harm.

Purr! the cat is grey.

Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before

this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor King her father.

Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?

She cannot deny it.

Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.

And here’s another, whose warp’d looks proclaim

What store her heart is made on. Stop her there!

Arms, arms! sword! fire! Corruption in the place!

False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape?

Bless thy five wits!

O pity! Sir, where is the patience now

That you so oft have boasted to retain?

[_Aside._] My tears begin to take his part so much

They mar my counterfeiting.

The little dogs and all,

Trey, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me.

Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs!

Be thy mouth or black or white,

Tooth that poisons if it bite;

Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim,

Hound or spaniel, brach or him,

Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail,

Tom will make them weep and wail;

For, with throwing thus my head,

Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled.

Do, de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market towns.

Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.

Then let them anatomize Regan; see what breeds about her

heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard

hearts? [_To Edgar._] You, sir, I entertain you for one of my

hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You’ll

say they are Persian; but let them be changed.

Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile.

Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains.

So, so. We’ll go to supper i’ the morning.

And I’ll go to bed at noon.

Come hither, friend;

Where is the King my master?

Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone.

Good friend, I prythee, take him in thy arms;

I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him;

There is a litter ready; lay him in’t

And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet

Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master;

If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life,

With thine, and all that offer to defend him,

Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up;

And follow me, that will to some provision

Give thee quick conduct.

Oppressed nature sleeps.

This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken sinews,

Which, if convenience will not allow,

Stand in hard cure. Come, help to bear thy master;

[_To the Fool._] Thou must not stay behind.

Come, come, away!

When we our betters see bearing our woes,

We scarcely think our miseries our foes.

Who alone suffers, suffers most i’ the mind,

Leaving free things and happy shows behind:

But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip

When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.

How light and portable my pain seems now,

When that which makes me bend makes the King bow;

He childed as I fathered! Tom, away!

Mark the high noises; and thyself bewray,

When false opinion, whose wrong thoughts defile thee,

In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee.

What will hap more tonight, safe ’scape the King!

Lurk, lurk.