Previous - Next

o'er
bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and
halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge, made him
proud
of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inch'd
bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy
five
wits! Tom 's acold. O, do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from
whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some
charity,
whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now- and
there-
and there again- and there!
Storm still.
Lear. What, have his daughters brought him to this pass?
Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give 'em all?
Fool. Nay, he reserv'd a blanket, else we had been all sham'd.
Lear. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air
Hang fated o'er men's faults light on thy daughters!
Kent. He hath no daughters, sir.
Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu'd nature
To such a lowness but his unkind daughters.
Is it the fashion that discarded fathers
Should have thus little mercy on their flesh?
Judicious punishment! 'Twas this flesh begot
Those pelican daughters.
Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock's Hill. 'Allow, 'allow, loo,
loo!
Fool. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
Edg. Take heed o' th' foul fiend; obey thy parents: keep thy
word
justly; swear not; commit not with man's sworn spouse; set
not
thy sweet heart on proud array. Tom 's acold.
Lear. What hast thou been?
Edg. A servingman, 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. Keep thy foot out of brothel, thy
hand
out of placket, thy pen from lender's book, and defy the
foul
fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind; says
suum, mun, hey, no, nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa!
let
him trot by.
Storm still.
Lear. Why, thou wert better in thy 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's are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself;
unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked

Previous - Next