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  • Title: King Lear (Quarto 2, 1619)
  • Editor: Pervez Rizvi
  • Coordinating editor: Michael Best
  • ISBN: 978-1-55058-463-9

    Copyright Michael Best. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Pervez Rizvi
    Not Peer Reviewed

    King Lear (Quarto 2, 1619)

    The History of King Lear.
    Lear. Thou think st tis much, that this crulentious storme
    Inuades vs to the skin, so tis to thee,
    But where the greater malady is fixt,
    The le s s er is scarse felt, thou would st shun a Beare,
    1790 But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea,
    Thoud' st meete the beare it'h mouth, when the mind's free,
    The bodies delicate, the tempe st in my minde;
    Doth from my sences take all feeling else,
    Saue what beares their filiall ingratitude,
    1795 Is it not as this mouth should teare this hand
    For lifting food to it? but I will puni sh sure;
    No I will weepe no more; in such a night as this!
    O Regan, Gonorill , your old kinde father
    1800 Whose franke heart gaue you all, O that way madne s s e lies,
    Let me shunne that, no more of that.
    Kent. Good my lord enter.
    Lear. Prethee go in thy selfe, seeke thy owne ease,
    1805 This tempe st will not giue me leaue to ponder
    On things would hurt me more, but Ile go in,
    Poore naked wretches, where so ere you are
    1810 That bide the pelting of this pittile s s e night,
    How shall your house-le s s e heads, and vnfed sides,
    Your loopt and windowed raggedne s s e defend you
    From seasons such as these, O I haue tane
    Too little care of this, take phy sicke pompe,
    1815 Expose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele,
    That thou mai st shake the superflux to them,
    And shew the heauens more iu st.
    1820 Foole. Come not in here Nunckle, here's a spirit, helpe me, help
    me.
    Kent. Giue me thy hand, who's there?
    Foole. A spirit, he sayes his name is poore Tom.
    1825 Kent. What art thou that do st grumble there in the straw?
    come foorth.
    Edg. Away, the foule fiend followes me, through the sharpe
    hathorne blowes the cold winde, goe to thy cold bed & warme
    thee.
    Lear.