King Lear, Act 3, Scene 2

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man!

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You floods and hurricanes, spout until you have soaked our church steeples and drowned the weathercocks on them! You fires that smell of sulphur and strike as fast as thought, advance riders running ahead of the thunderbolts that split oaks, scorch my white head! And you, thunder that shakes everything, flatten the thick round ball of the world! Crack the moulds nature casts her creatures in, spill all the seeds at once that make ungrateful man!

O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.

Oh, uncle, flattery in a dry house is better than this rainwater out of doors. Good uncle, go in, and ask your daughters for their blessing: this is a night that takes pity on neither wise men nor fools.

Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters; I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children; You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man: But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! ’tis foul!

Rumble till your belly is empty! Spit, fire! Spout, rain! Rain, wind, thunder and fire are not my daughters; I don't accuse you, you elements, of being unnatural to me. I never gave you a kingdom or called you my children; you owe me no obedience: so let your dreadful pleasure fall. Here I stand, your slave, a poor, feeble, weak and scorned old man. But still I call you servile agents, because you join with my two destructive daughters and bring your armies, born in the heavens, against a head as old and white as this! Oh! Oh! It's vile!

He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.

A man who has a house to put his head in has a good helmet. The man whose crotch finds a home before his head has one will end up crawling with lice, and so will his crotch: that's how beggars come to have so many children. The man who treats his toe as he ought to treat his heart will suffer over a corn and turn his sleep into waking. For there was never yet a beautiful woman who didn't make faces at herself in a mirror.

No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

No, I will be the model of perfect patience; I will say nothing.

Who’s there?

Who's there?

Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a fool.

By the Virgin Mary, here's his Grace and a pair of breeches; that is, a wise man and a fool.

Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry Th’affliction, nor the fear.

Oh no, sir, are you out here? Creatures that love the night don't love nights like this; the angry skies frighten even the animals that roam in the dark, and make them stay in their dens. Since I became a man I can't remember ever hearing such sheets of fire, such bursts of terrible thunder, such groaning of roaring wind and rain. Human nature can't bear the suffering or the terror.

Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practis’d on man’s life: close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn’d against than sinning.

Let the great gods, who keep up this fearful uproar over our heads, hunt out their enemies now. Tremble, you wretch who have crimes inside you that are still hidden and unpunished by justice. Hide yourself, you bloodstained hand; you perjurer, and you pretender to virtue who commit incest. Shake yourself to pieces, you villain who, under a secret and convenient show of decency, have plotted to take a man's life. You tightly shut-up guilty secrets, burst open the coverings that hide you and beg mercy from these terrifying officers of the court. I am a man more sinned against than sinning.

Alack, bareheaded! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest: Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,— More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d; Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in,—return, and force Their scanted courtesy.

Oh no, with no hat on! My gracious lord, there's a hut close by here; it will offer you some shelter against the storm. Rest there, while I go back to this hard house — harder than the stones it's built from; the house that, only a moment ago, when I asked after you, refused to let me in — and force out the little courtesy they have.

My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That’s sorry yet for thee.

My mind is beginning to give way. Come on, my boy. How are you, my boy? Are you cold? I'm cold myself. Where is this straw, my man? The way need works on us is strange, since it can make worthless things precious. Come, take me to your hut. Poor fool and servant, there's a part of my heart that still feels sorry for you.

[Singing.] He that has and a little tiny wit, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day.

[Singing.] The man who has only a tiny little bit of sense, with hey-ho, the wind and the rain, must make do and be content with whatever his luck allows, though it rains every single day.

True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.

True, boy. Come, take us to this hut.

This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go: When priests are more in word than matter; When brewers mar their malt with water; When nobles are their tailors’ tutors; No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors; When every case in law is right; No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; When slanders do not live in tongues; Nor cut-purses come not to throngs; When usurers tell their gold i’ the field; And bawds and whores do churches build, Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion: Then comes the time, who lives to see’t, That going shall be us’d with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.

This is a splendid night for cooling a prostitute's heat. I'll deliver a prophecy before I go: When priests talk more than they do; when brewers spoil their malt with water; when noblemen teach their tailors about fashion; when nobody is burned for heresy, only men burning with love for girls; when every lawsuit is decided justly; when no squire is in debt and no knight is poor; when slanders don't live on people's tongues; when pickpockets stay away from crowds; when moneylenders count their gold out in the open; and pimps and whores build churches — then the kingdom of Albion will fall into great confusion. Then the time will come, for whoever lives to see it, when walking will be done with the feet. This prophecy will be made by Merlin, since I am living before his time.