Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d,

Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst,

The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune,

Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear:

The lamentable change is from the best;

The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then,

Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace;

The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst

Owes nothing to thy blasts.

Old Man.

But who comes here? My father, poorly led?

World, world, O world!

But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,

Life would not yield to age.

O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant

these fourscore years.

Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone.

Thy comforts can do me no good at all;

Thee they may hurt.

You cannot see your way.

I have no way, and therefore want no eyes;

I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen

Our means secure us, and our mere defects

Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar,

The food of thy abused father’s wrath!

Might I but live to see thee in my touch,

I’d say I had eyes again!

How now! Who’s there?

[_Aside._] O gods! Who is’t can say ‘I am at the

worst’?

I am worse than e’er I was.

’Tis poor mad Tom.

[_Aside._] And worse I may be yet. The worst is not

So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’

Fellow, where goest?

Is it a beggar-man?

Madman, and beggar too.

He has some reason, else he could not beg.

I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw;

Which made me think a man a worm. My son

Came then into my mind, and yet my mind

Was then scarce friends with him.

I have heard more since.

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods,

They kill us for their sport.

[_Aside._] How should this be?

Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow,

Angering itself and others. Bless thee, master!

Is that the naked fellow?

Ay, my lord.

Then prythee get thee away. If for my sake

Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain,

I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love,

And bring some covering for this naked soul,

Which I’ll entreat to lead me.

Alack, sir, he is mad.

’Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind.

Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure;

Above the rest, be gone.

I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have,

Come on’t what will.

Sirrah naked fellow.

Poor Tom’s a-cold.

[_Aside._] I cannot daub it further.

Come hither, fellow.

[_Aside._] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.

Know’st thou the way to Dover?

Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been

scared out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man’s son, from

the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of

lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of darkness; Mahu, of

stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and

mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So,

bless thee, master!

Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s plagues

Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched

Makes thee the happier. Heavens deal so still!

Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,

That slaves your ordinance, that will not see

Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly;

So distribution should undo excess,

And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?

Ay, master.

There is a cliff, whose high and bending head

Looks fearfully in the confined deep:

Bring me but to the very brim of it,

And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear

With something rich about me: from that place

I shall no leading need.

Give me thy arm:

Poor Tom shall lead thee.