Foole. Come not in heere Nuncle, here's a spirit, helpe
me, helpe me
Kent. Giue my thy hand, who's there?
Foole. A spirite, a spirite, he sayes his name's poore
Tom
Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i'th'
straw? Come forth
Edg. Away, the foule Fiend followes me, through the
sharpe Hauthorne blow the windes. Humh, goe to thy
bed and warme thee
Lear. Did'st thou giue all to thy Daughters? And art
thou come to this?
Edgar. Who giues any thing to poore Tom? Whom
the foule fiend hath led through Fire, and through Flame,
through Sword, and Whirle-Poole, o're Bog, and Quagmire,
that hath laid Kniues vnder his Pillow, and Halters
in his Pue, set Rats-bane by his Porredge, made him
Proud of heart, to ride on a Bay trotting Horse, ouer foure
incht Bridges, to course his owne shadow for a Traitor.
Blisse thy fiue Wits, Toms a cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de,
blisse thee from Whirle-Windes, Starre-blasting, and taking,
do poore Tom some charitie, whom the foule Fiend
vexes. There could I haue him now, and there, and there
againe, and there.
Storme still.
Lear. Ha's his Daughters brought him to this passe?
Could'st thou saue nothing? Would'st thou giue 'em all?
Foole. Nay, he reseru'd a Blanket, else we had bin all
sham'd
Lea. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous ayre
Hang fated o're mens faults, light on thy Daughters