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Commend a dear thing to you. There is division,
Gent. I will talk further with you.
No, do not.
and take What it contains: If you shall see Cordelia, (As fear not but you shall,) show her this ring;
And she will tell
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.
Another Part of the Heath. Storm continues.
Enter LEAR and Fool.
Lear. Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage!
Fool. O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is
better than this rain-water out o'door. Good nuncle,
you servile ministers,
Fool. He that has a house to put his head in, has a good head-piece.
The cod-piece that will house,
Before the head has any,
So beggars marry many52.
What he his heart should make,
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.
Kent. Who's there?
Fool. Marry, here's grace, and a cod-piece; that's a wise man, and a fool. Kent. Alas, sir, are you here? things that love
night, Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies 58 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 The affliction, nor the fear. Lear.
Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pother 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 man 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. Kent.
Alack, bare-lieaded! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;
Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest;
My wits begin to turn.-
hovel, Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee.
Fool. 54 He thut has a little tiny wit,
With heigh, ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit;
For the rain it raineth every day.
Lear. True, my good boy.-Come, bring us to this hovel.
[Exeunt Lear and Kent. Fool. 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;