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If onely to go warme were gorgeous, |
Why Nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, |
Which scarcely keepes thee warme, but for true need: |
You Heauens, giue me that patience, patience I need, |
You see me heere (you Gods) a poore old man, |
As full of griefe as age, wretched in both, |
If it be you that stirres these Daughters hearts |
Against their Father, foole me not so much, |
To beare it tamely: touch me with Noble anger, |
And let not womens weapons, water drops, |
Staine my mans cheekes. No you vnnaturall Hags, |
I will haue such reuenges on you both, |
That all the world shall- I will do such things, |
What they are yet, I know not, but they shalbe |
The terrors of the earth? you thinke Ile weepe, |
No, Ile not weepe, I haue full cause of weeping. |
Storme and Tempest. |
But this heart shal break into a hundred thousand flawes |
Or ere Ile weepe; O Foole, I shall go mad. |
Exeunt. |
Corn. Let vs withdraw, 'twill be a Storme |
Reg. This house is little, the old man and's people, |
Cannot be well bestow'd |
Gon. 'Tis his owne blame hath put himselfe from rest, |
And must needs taste his folly |
Reg. For his particular, Ile receiue him gladly, |
But not one follower |
Gon. So am I purpos'd, |
Where is my Lord of Gloster? |
Enter Gloster. |
Corn. Followed the old man forth, he is return'd |
Glo. The King is in high rage |
Corn. Whether is he going? |
Glo. He cals to Horse, but will I know not whether |
Corn. 'Tis best to giue him way, he leads himselfe |
Gon. My Lord, entreate him by no meanes to stay |
Glo. Alacke the night comes on, and the high windes |
Do sorely ruffle, for many Miles about |
There's scarce a Bush |
Reg. O Sir, to wilfull men, |
The iniuries that they themselues procure, |
Must be their Schoole-Masters: shut vp your doores, |
He is attended with a desperate traine, |
And what they may incense him too, being apt, |
To haue his eare abus'd, wisedome bids feare |
Cor. Shut vp your doores my Lord, 'tis a wil'd night, |
My Regan counsels well: come out oth' storme. |
Exeunt. |
Actus Tertius. Scena Prima. |
Storme still. Enter Kent, and a Gentleman, seuerally. |
Kent. Who's there besides foule weather? |
Gen. One minded like the weather, most vnquietly |
Kent. I know you: Where's the King? |
Gent. Contending with the fretfull Elements; |
Bids the winde blow the Earth into the Sea, |
Or swell the curled Waters 'boue the Maine, |
That things might change, or cease |
Kent. But who is with him? |
Gent. None but the Foole, who labours to out-iest |
His heart-strooke iniuries |
Kent. Sir, I do know you, |
And dare vpon the warrant of my note |
Commend a deere thing to you. There is diuision |
(Although as yet the face of it is couer'd |
With mutuall cunning) 'twixt Albany, and Cornwall: |
Who haue, as who haue not, that their great Starres |
Thron'd and set high; Seruants, who seeme no lesse, |
Which are to France the Spies and Speculations |
Intelligent of our State. What hath bin seene, |
Either in snuffes, and packings of the Dukes, |
Or the hard Reine which both of them hath borne |
Against the old kinde King; or something deeper, |
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