Original subtitles

Know that we have divided in three

our kingdom;

and 'tis our fast intent

to shake all cares and business from our age,

conferring them on younger strengths,

while we, unburden'd, crawl to our death.

Our son of Cornwall,

and you, our no less loving son of Albany,

we have, this hour a constant will

to publish our daughters' several dowers

that future strife may be prevented now.

The Princes France and Burgundy,

great rivals in our youngest daughter's love,

here are to be answered.

Tell me,

my daughters,

which of you shall we say doth love us most?

Goneril, our eldest-born,

speak first.

Sir, I love you more than word can wield the matter;

dearer than eyesight, space or liberty;

beyond what can be valued rich or rare; no less than life

with grace, health, beauty, honor;

as much as child e'er loved or father found;

a love that makes breath poor and speech unable.

Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

Of all these bounds,

even from this line to this,

we make thee lady:

To thine and Albany's issues be this perpetual.

What says our second daughter,

our dearest Regan,

wife of Cornwall?

Speak.

I am made of that self metal as my sister,

and prize me at her worth.

In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love;

only she comes too short,

that I profess myself an enemy to all other joys

which the most precious square of sense possesses,

and find I am alone felicitate in your dear Highness' love.

To thee and thine hereditary ever

remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;

no less in space,

validity and pleasure,

than that conferred on Goneril.

Now, our joy,

although our last and least;

to whose young love the vines of France and milk of Burgundy

strive to be interess'd;

what can you say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters?

Speak.

Nothing, my lord.

Nothing!

Nothing.

Nothing will come of nothing.

Speak again.

I love your Majesty according to my bond; no more nor less.

But goes thy heart with this?

Ay, my good lord.

So young and so untender?

So young, my lord,

and true.

Let it be so!

Thy truth, then, be thy dower!

For, by the secret radiance of the sun,

the mysteries of Hecat and the night;

by all the operation of the orbs from whom you exist and cease to be;

here I disclaim all my paternal care,

and as a stranger to my heart and me, hold thee from this for ever!

Royal Lear...

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

Cornwall and Albany,

with my two daughters' dowers, digest the third.

I do invest you jointly with my power,

pre-eminence, and all the large effects that troop with majesty.

Ourself, by monthly course,

with reservation of an hundred knights,

by you to be sustained,

shall our abode make with you by due turn.

Only we shall retain the name,

and all the addition to a king:

The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,

beloved sons, be yours.

Lear is mad!

What would'st thou do, old man?

Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least.

The bow is bent and drawn;

make from the shaft.

Let it fall.

Kent, on thy life, no more.

My life I never held

but as a pawn to wage against thine enemies.

Out of my sight!

See better, Lear.

Now, by Apollo...

Now, by Apollo, King, I'll tell thee thou dost evil.

Take thy reward.

Turn thy hated back upon our kingdom;

if thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominion,

the moment is thy death.

Better thou hadst not been born,

than not to have pleas'd me better.

Be it lawful,

I take up what's cast away.

Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon.

Thy dow'rless daughter, King, is Queen of France.

Thou hast her, France; let her be thine;

for we have no such daughter,

nor shall ever see that face of hers again.

I think our father will away tonight.

That's most certain, and with you;

next month with us.

You see how full of changes his age is;

he always lov'd our sister most;

and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off.

'Tis the infirmity of his age;

yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

We shall further think on it.

We must do something,

and i' th' heat.

These late eclipses of the sun and moon portend no good to us.

In cities, mutinies;

in countries, discord;

in palaces, treason;

and the bond crack'd between child and father.

We have seen the best of our time:

Machinations, hollowness, treachery,

and all ruinous disorders follow us

disquietly to our graves.

And the noble and true-hearted Kent banish'd!

'Tis strange.

I do profess to be no less than I seem.

To serve him truly that will put me in trust.

To love him that is honest.

To converse with him that is wise and says little.

To fear judgment.

To fight when I cannot choose.

And to eat no fish.

'Tis politic and safe to let him keep at point a hundred knights;

yes, that on every dream, each buzz,

each fancy, each complaint,

dislike,

he may enguard his dotage with their pow'rs,

and hold our lives in mercy.

You might fear too far.

Safer than trust too far.

No, no, my lord.

This milky gentleness of yours shows want of wisdom.

Striving to better, oft we mar what's well.

Nay, then.

Well, well.

The event.

Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

Ay, madam.

By day and night he wrongs me;

every hour he flashes into one gross crime or other that sets us all at odds.

I'll not endure it.

His knights grow riotous,

and himself upbraids us on every trifle.

When he returns from hunting,

I will not speak with him; say I am sick.

If you come short of former services,

you shall do well;

the fault of it I'll answer.

Put on what weary negligence you please, you and your fellows.

I'd have it come to question. If he distaste it, let him to my sister.

Idle old man,

that still would manage those authorities that he hath given away.

Old fools are babes again.

Let me not stay a jot for dinner;

go get it ready.

What art thou?

A very honest-hearted fellow, sir, and as poor as the King.

If thou be'st as poor for a subject as he is for a king,

thou art poor enough.

What would'st thou?

Service.

Who would'st thou serve? You.

Dost thou know me, fellow?

No, sir;

but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.

What's that? Authority.

Follow me;

thou shalt serve me.

If I like thee no worse after dinner,

I'll not part from thee yet.

Let his knights have colder looks among you; what grows of it no matter.

Dinner!

Ho, dinner!

Where's my knave? My fool?

Go you and call my fool hither.

O you, sirrah, you,

where's my daughter?

Go call the clotpoll back.

Hey, you!

Where is my fool?

I think the world's asleep.

Where's that mongrel?

He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.

Why came the slave not back to me when I called him?

He answered me he would not. Would not!

Your Highness is not entertained

with the same ceremonious affection as you were wont.

Go you and tell my daughter I'd speak with her.

And go you call hither my fool.

O you,

you, sir.

Come you hither, sir.

Who am I, sir?

My lady's father. "My lady's father"!

You whoreson dog!

You slave!

You cur!

I'll not be struck, my lord.

Nor tripp'd neither, you base football player.

I'll teach thee a speech.

Do.

This is nothing, fool.

Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?

Why, no, boy; Nothing can be

made out of nothing.

Give me an egg, and I'll give thee two crowns.

What two crowns shall they be?

Why, after I've cut the egg in the middle

and eat up the meat,

the two crowns of the egg.

Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gav'st thy golden one away.

I prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie.

I would fain learn to lie.

And you lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipp'd.

I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are.

They'll have me whipped for speaking true, for lying,

and sometimes for holding my peace.

I'd rather be any kind of a thing than a fool;

yet I would not be thee, nuncle;

for thou hast pared thy wits o' both sides and left nothing in the middle.

When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?

Ever since thou mad'st thy daughters thy mothers;

for when thou gav'st them the rod, and pulled down thine own breeches.

Nay,

and thou canst not smile as the wind sits.

Thou'It catch cold shortly.

Yes, forsooth,

I will hold my tongue; so your face bids me,

so I'll say nothing.

How now, daughter!

You are too much of late i' th' frown.

Not only, sir, this your all-licens'd fool,

but other of your insolent retinue do hourly carp and quarrel,

breaking forth in rank and not-to-be-endur'd riots.

I had thought, by making this well known unto you, to have found a safe redress;

but now grow fearful by what yourself too late have spoke and done,

that you protect this course and put it on by your allowance;

which if you should, the fault would not 'scape censure,

nor the redresses sleep.

For you know, nuncle,

the hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,

it had its head bit off by its young.

So, out went the candle and we were left darkling.

Are you our daughter?

I would you would make use of your good wisdom,

whereof I know you are fraught, and put away these dispositions

which of late transport you from what you rightly are.

May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee.

Does any here know me?

This is not Lear.

Does Lear walk thus,

speak thus?

Where are his eyes?

Ha, waking?

'Tis not so.

Who is it who can tell me who I am?

Lear's shadow.

I would learn that.

Your name,

fair gentlewoman?

This admiration, sir, is much of the savor of other your new pranks.

I do beseech you, understand my purposes a'right,

as you are old and reverend should be wise.

Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;

as men so disordered, so debauched and bold,

that this, our court, infected with their manners, shows like a riotous inn.

Epicurism and lust makes it more like a tavern or a brothel

than a grac'd palace.

The shame itself doth call for instant remedy.

Be then advis'd by her that else will take the thing she begs,

a little to disquantity your train;

and the remainders that shall still depend

to be such men as may besort your age,

who know themselves

and you.

Darkness and devils!

Saddle my horses!

Call my train together!

Degenerate bastard!

Yet have I left a daughter.

Detested kite,

thou liest!

My train are men of choice and rarest parts

that all particulars of duty know.

And in the most exact regard

support the worships of their name.

Oh, Lear, Lear, Lear!

Beat at this gate that let thy folly in

and thy dear judgment out.

My lord, I am guiltless,

as I am ignorant of what hath moved you.

It may be so, my lord.

Hear, Nature.

Hear, dear goddess, hear.

Suspend thy purpose,

if thou didst intend to make this creature fruitful.

Into her womb convey sterility.

Dry up in her the organs of increase;

and from her derogate body never spring a babe to honor her.

If she must teem,

create her child of spleen,

that it may live and be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her.

Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth.

With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks.

Turn all her mother's pains and benefits to laughter and contempt,

that she may feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is

to have a thankless child.

Are my horses ready?

Your asses are gone about them.

Have you writ that letter to my sister?

Ay, madam.

Inform her full of my particular fear. Get you gone.

I cannot be so partial, Goneril,

to the great love I bear you.

I pray you content.

Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly;

for although she's as like this as a crab's like an apple,

yet I can tell what I can tell.

What canst tell, boy?

That she will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab.

Canst tell why one's nose stands i' th' middle of one's face?

No.

Why, to keep one's eyes on either side of one's nose.

That what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.

I did her wrong.

Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?

No. Nor I, neither.

But I can tell why a snail has a house.

Why?

Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his daughters.

I will forget my nature.

So kind a father.

The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven

is a pretty reason.

Because they are not eight?

Yes, indeed.

Thou wouldst make a good fool.

To take't again perforce.

Monster ingratitude.

If thou wert my fool, nuncle,

I'd have thee beaten for being old before thy time.

How's that?

Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

O, let me not be mad,

not mad, sweet heaven!

Keep me in temper.

I would not be mad.

How now, brother Edmund!

What serious contemplation are you in?

I was thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day,

what should follow these eclipses.

And do you busy yourself with that?

I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily;

as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent;

death, dearth,

dissolution, divisions, menaces.

When we are sick in fortune,

we make guilty of our disasters

the sun, the moon, the stars,

as if we were drunkards, liars, and adulterers

by planetary influence.

Why brand they me with baseness?

Bastardy? Base?

My father coupled with my mother under the Dragon's tail,

and I was born under Ursa Major,

so that it follows that I am rough and lecherous.

I should have been that I am,

had the maidenliest star in the firmament

twinkled on my bastardizing.

When sons are at perfect age,

and fathers in decline,

the father should be put in the care of the son.

And the son manage the revenue.

It's the policy of reverence for age

that makes the world bitter.

The Duke of Cornwall and Regan his Duchess will be here this night.

How comes that? I know not.

The better best!

This weaves itself perforce into my business.

Briefness and fortune work!

If this letter thrive,

Edmund the bastard shall top the legitimate.

Legitimate Edgar,

I must have your land.

Now, gods,

stand up for bastards!

Father!

I swore he could by no means.

By no means what?

Persuade me to the murder of your lordship.

I told him the revenging gods 'gainst parricides did all the thunder bend;

spoke with how strong a bond the child was bound to th' father.

My son Edgar.

I threaten'd to discover him.

He replied,

"Who would put any trust or faith in thee,

"thou unpossessing bastard?"

He cannot be such a monster,

to his father that so tenderly and entirely loves him.

I dare pawn down my life for him.

He's done this to feel my affection to your honor,

and no other pretence of danger.

Think you so?

Has he never before sounded you in this matter?

I have heard him maintain it to be fit

that sons at perfect age and fathers in decline,

the father should be put in care of the son,

and the son manage the revenue.

Villain, villain!

Unnatural, brutish villain!

If your honor judge it meet,

I'll place you where you shall hear us confer of this.

Edgar, when saw you my father last?

Parted you on good terms?

Saw you no displeasure in him?

Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him.

What does it say?

"If our father would sleep till I wak'd him,

"you should enjoy half his revenue for ever,

"and live the beloved of your brother. "

"Edgar. "

Help! Murder!

When came you to this? I found it at my casement.

Some villain hath done me wrong. That's my fear.

Have you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall?

He's coming hither now in the night, in haste, and Regan with him.

Have you nothing said against the Duke of Albany?

Not a word. Help!

I've told you what I've seen and heard but faintly.

Nothing like the image and horror of it.

Pardon me, in cunning I must draw my sword upon you.

Draw; seem to defend yourself.

Quit you well!

Light, ho, here!

Stop!

Stop!

Torches!

Torches! Where is the villain?

There stood he in the dark, sir. His sharp sword out.

Pursue him.

Go after, ho!

There!

Loyal and natural boy.

Of all my lands,

I'll work the means to make thee heritor.

Open up!

Your daughter Regan and the Duke are gone.

'Tis strange that they should so depart from home.

As I learned, the night before there was no purpose in them of this remove.

'Tis said they make toward Gloucester.

Go you before to Gloucester

with these letters.

Acquaint my daughter no further with anything you know.

If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there before you.

Did my father's godson seek your life?

O, madam, my old heart is crack'd.

'Tis too bad, too bad.

I hear that you have shown your father a child-like office.

It was my duty, sir.

While I can 'scape, I will preserve myself.

My face

I'll grime with filth

like to a Bedlam beggar.

Poor Tom!

Who gives anything to poor Tom?

Do poor Tom some charity!

Poor Tom!

Edgar,

I

nothing am.

Edgar I nothing am.

Ho!

Art of this house? Ay.

Where may I set my horse?

I' th' mire.

Prithee, if thou lov'st me, tell me.

I love thee not.

Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

Fellow,

I know thee.

What dost thou know me for?

A knave, beggar,

coward, pander,

and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch.

Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

You come with letters against the King,

and take the puppet's part against the royalty of her father.

You brazen-fac'd varlet!

I'll flesh ye! You wagtail!

You whoreson cullionly barbermonger!

I'll flay you!

A plague upon your epileptic visage!

Peace, shall I know you no reverence?

Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

Why art thou angry?

My lord, if you will give me leave,

I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar,

and daub the wall of a jakes with him.

What is his fault?

His countenance likes me not.

No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers.

I have seen better faces in my time.

This is some fellow who, having been prais'd for bluntness,

doth affect a saucy roughness.

He cannot flatter, he, an honest mind and plain. He must speak truth.

I know, sir, I am no flatterer.

I serve the King.

Fetch forth the stocks.

As I have life and honor, there shall he sit till noon.

Till noon!

Till night, my lord;

and all night too.

Madam, if I were your father's dog, you should not use me so.

Sir, being his knave, I will.

Let me beseech your Grace not to do so.

The King must take it ill.

I'll answer that.

My sister may receive it much more worse to have her gentleman abus'd,

assaulted for following her affairs.

Put in his legs.

I am sorry for thee, friend.

'Twill be ill taken.

I'll entreat for thee.

Pray, do not, sir.

I've travell'd hard; some time I will sleep out, the rest I'll whistle.

Fortune, good night.

Smile once more.

Turn thy wheel.

Ha, ha!

He wears cruel garters.

What's he that hath so much thy place mistook to set thee here?

It is both he and she, your son and daughter.

No. Yes.

No, I say. I say, yea.

No, no, they would not. Yes, yes, they have.

They durst not do't.

Winter's not gone yet till the wild geese fly that way.

O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!

Hysterica passio,

down,

thou climbing sorrow,

thy element's below.

Where is this daughter? With the earl, sir. Within.

Follow me not. Stay here.

How chance the King comes with so small a number?

An thou hadst been set i' th' stocks for that question,

thou hadst well deserved it.

We'll set thee to school to an ant,

to teach thee there's no laboring i' th' winter.

All that follow their nose

are led by their eyes but blind men;

and there's not one nose among twenty but can smell him that's stinking.

Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down the hill,

lest it break thy neck with following;

but the great one that goes upward,

let him draw thee after.

When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again.

I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.

That, sir,

Where learn'd you this, fool?

Not i' th' stocks, fool.

Deny to speak with me?

They are sick! They are weary! They have traveled all night!

Fetch me a better answer!

My dear lord, you know the fiery quality of the Duke.

Fiery? What quality?

Why, Gloucester... Gloucester, I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so.

Inform'd them!

Dost thou understand me, man?

Ay, my good lord.

The King would speak with Cornwall.

The dear father would with his daughter speak;

commands her service.

Are they inform'd of this?

My breath and blood! Fiery?

The fiery Duke?

Tell the hot Duke that... No, but not yet.

May be he is not well.

Death on my state!

Wherefore should he sit here?

Give me my servant forth.

Tell the Duke and his wife I'd speak with them.

Now, presently.

Bid them come forth and hear me,

or at their chamber door I'll beat the drum

till it cry sleep to death.

I would have all well between you.

O me, my heart,

my rising heart!

But, down.

Good morrow to you both.

Hail to your Grace.

I am glad to see your Highness.

Regan,

I think you are;

I have good reason to think so.

Are you free?

Some other time for that.

Beloved Regan,

thy sister is naught.

O Regan, she hath tied sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here.

I can scarce speak to thee;

thou'It not believe with how depraved a quality she...

O Regan!

I cannot think my sister in the least would fail her obligation.

Lf, so perchance, she has restrained the riots of your followers,

'tis on such ground and to such wholesome end

as clears her from all blame.

My curses on her. Sir, you are old.

Nature in you stands on the very verge of his confine.

You should be rul'd and led by some discretion

that discerns your state better than you yourself.

Therefore, I pray you that to our sister you do make return.

Say you have wrong'd her. Ask her forgiveness?

Do you but mark how this becomes the house:

"Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; age is unnecessary.

"On my knees I beg that you vouchsafe me raiment, bed and food. "

Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks.

Return you to my sister. Never, Regan.

All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall on her!

Blest gods! So will you wish on me when the rash mood is on.

No, Regan.

Thou shalt never have my curse.

Thy tender-hearted nature shall not give thee o'er to harshness.

Her eyes are fierce, but thine do comfort,

not burn.

'Tis not in thee to grudge my pleasures,

to cut off my train,

to bandy hasty words,

to oppose the bolt against my coming in.

Thy half of the kingdom thou hast not forgot wherein I thee endow'd.

O heavens,

if you do love old men,

if your sweet sway allow obedience,

if you yourselves are old,

make it your cause:

Send down and take my part.

Art not asham'd to look upon this beard?

O Regan, will you take her by the hand?

And why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?

All's not offence that indiscretion finds, and dotage terms so.

O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold?

How came my man i' th' stocks?

I set him there, sir. You, did you?

I pray you, Father,

being weak, seem so.

If till the expiration of your month,

you will return and sojourn with my sister,

dismissing half your train, come then to me.

I am now from home and out of that provision

which shall be needful for your entertainment.

Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd?

No, rather I abjure all roofs,

and choose to wage against the enmity o' th' air,

to be a comrade with the wolf and owl.

Necessity's sharp pinch!

At your choice, sir.

I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad.

I will not trouble thee, my child.

Farewell.

We'll no more meet,

no more see one another.

But yet thou art my flesh,

my blood, my daughter;

or rather a disease that's in my flesh

which I must needs call mine;

thou art a boil, a plague-sore,

or embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

But I'll not chide thee.

Let shame come when it will;

I do not call it.

I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,

nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove.

Mend when thou canst;

be better at thy leisure;

I can be patient;

I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights.

Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance from those that she calls servants,

or from mine?

Why not, my lord?

If then they chanc'd to slack you, we could control them.

If you will come to me,

for now I spy a danger.

I entreat you to bring but five and twenty.

To no more will I give place or notice.

I gave you all.

And in good time you gave it.

Made you my guardians,

my depositories,

but kept a reservation

to be followed with such a number.

What, must I come to you with five and twenty?

Regan, said you so?

And speak't again, my lord. No more with me.

Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favor'd

when others are more wicked.

Not being the worst stands in some rank of praise.

I'll go with thee.

Thy fifty yet doth double five and twenty.

And thou art twice her love.

Hear me, my lord.

What need you five and twenty, ten, or five,

to follow in a house where twice so many have a command to tend you?

What need one?

O, reason not the need!

Our basest beggars are in the poorest thing superfluous.

Allow not nature more than nature needs,

man's life's as cheap as beast's.

Thou art a lady;

if only to go warm were gorgeous,

why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st

which scarcely keeps thee warm.

But for true need...

O heavens, give me patience.

Patience I need.

You see me here, you gods,

a poor old man,

as full of grief as age;

wretched in both.

If it be you that stirs these daughters' hearts

against their father,

fool me not so much to bear it tamely;

touch me with noble anger,

and let not women's weapons, water-drops, stain my man's cheeks.

No, you unnatural hags!

I will have such revenges on you both,

that all the world shall...

I will do such things...

What they are yet I know not; but they shall be the terrors of the earth.

You think I'll weep.

No, I'll not weep.

I have full cause of weeping;

but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws

or ere I'll weep.

O fool...

I shall go mad.

This house is little.

The old man and his people cannot be well bestow'd.

'Tis his own blame.

Hath put himself from rest and needs must taste his folly.

For his particular, I'll receive him gladly, but not one follower.

So am I purpos'd.

Where's my Lord of Gloucester?

The King is in high rage.

To willful men,

the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.

Shut up your doors. He is attended with a desperate train.

Shut up your doors, my lord.

Hyah!

Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool with thee.

Blow, winds!

And crack your cheeks!

Rage.

Blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes,

spout till you have drenched our steeples,

drown'd the cocks.

You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,

vaunt couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

singe my white head.

And thou, all-shaking thunder,

strike flat the thick rotundity of 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' doors.

Good nuncle, in; ask thy daughters' blessing.

Here's a night pities neither wise men nor fools.

Rumble thy belly full.

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, ho, 'tis foul!

He who has a house to put his head in has a good head-piece.

No, I will be the pattern of all patience.

I will say nothing.

Who's there?

A wise man and a fool.

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 unwhipped of justice:

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.

Gracious my lord,

hard by here is a hovel;

some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest.

My wits begin to turn.

Come on, my boy.

How dost thou, boy? Art cold?

Am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow?

The art of our necessities is strange

and 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.

My lord. Good my lord, enter.

Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm invades us to the skin;

so 'tis to thee,

but where the greater malady is fix'd, the lesser is scarce felt.

Thou'dst shun a bear;

but if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, thou'dst meet the bear i' th' mouth.

When the mind's free,

the body is delicate.

This tempest in my mind

doth from my senses take all feeling else,

save what beats there.

Filial ingratitude.

But I will punish home. No, I'll weep no more.

In such a night, to shut me out!

Pour on;

I will endure!

Nay, get thee in.

I'll pray,

and then I'll sleep.

Poor naked wretches,

wheresoe'er you are,

that bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,

how shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,

your loop'd and window'd raggedness,

defend you from seasons such as these?

O, I have ta'en too little care of this!

Take physic, pomp;

expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,

that thou mayst take the superflux to them,

and show the heavens more just.

Go to thy bed and warm thee.

Did'st thou give all to thy daughters? And art come to this?

Who gives anything to poor Tom?

Go you and talk to the Duke.

If he asks for me, I am ill and gone to bed.

If I die for it, as no less is threatened me,

the King, my old master, must be relieved.

Pray you, be careful.

What hast thou been?

A serving-man, proud in heart and mind;

that curl'd my hair; wore gloves in my cap;

serv'd the lust of my mistress' heart

and did the act of darkness with her;

swore as many oaths as I spake words,

and broke them in the sweet face of heaven.

One that slept in the contriving of lust, and wak'd to do it.

Wine lov'd I deeply, dice dearly;

and in woman out-paramour'd the Turk.

False of heart,

light of ear, bloody of hand;

hog in sloth, fox in stealth,

wolf in greediness, dog in madness,

lion in prey.

Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks

betray thy poor heart to woman.

And defy the foul fiend.

Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind.

Thou wert better in a grave

than to answer with thy uncover'd body this extremity of the skies.

Is man no more than this?

Consider him well.

Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide,

the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume.

Ha! Here's three on us are sophisticated.

Thou art the thing itself.

Unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, fork'd animal

as thou art.

Off, off, you lendings!

Come, unbutton here.

Who's there?

Who's there?

What are your names?

Who's there?

This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet!

Aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!

The prince of darkness is a gentleman;

Modo he's called, and Mahu.

Poor Tom's a-cold.

Go with me. I will bring you where both fire and food is ready.

Let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder?

Good my lord, take his offer.

What is your study?

How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin.

Let me ask you one word in private.

Child Rowland to the dark tower came.

His word was still,

"Fie, foh, and fum, I smell the blood of a British man. "