King Lear, Act 2, Scene 3

I heard myself proclaim’d, And by the happy hollow of a tree Escap’d the hunt. No port is free, no place That guard and most unusual vigilance Does not attend my taking. While I may scape I will preserve myself: and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever penury in contempt of man, Brought near to beast: my face I’ll grime with filth, Blanket my loins; elf all my hair in knots, And with presented nakedness outface The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor Tom, That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.

I heard myself declared an outlaw, and thanks to the lucky hollow of a tree I escaped the hunt. No port is unwatched, no place where guards and the closest, most unusual watchfulness are not waiting to seize me. While I can get away, I will keep myself alive, and I have decided to take on the lowest and poorest form that poverty ever, in its scorn of humankind, brought close to an animal. I'll smear my face with dirt, wrap a blanket round my waist, tangle all my hair into knots, and with bare, exposed skin face down the winds and the sky's persecutions. The countryside gives me examples and precedents in the beggars out of Bedlam, who with howling voices stick pins, wooden skewers, nails and sprigs of rosemary into their numbed, deadened bare arms; and with that horrifying sight, going from humble farms, poor wretched villages, sheep-pens and mills, sometimes with mad curses, sometimes with prayers, they force people to give them charity. Poor Turlygod! Poor Tom! That at least is something: as Edgar I am nothing.