Nahum Tate

“ Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious Storm Invades us to the Skin so, 'tis to thee But where the greater Malady is fixt The lesser is scarce felt: the Tempest in my Mind Do's from my Senses take all feeling else Save what beats there. ”

“ My wit begins to burn, Come on my Boy, how dost my Boy? art Cold? I'm cold my Self; shew me this Straw, my Fellow, The Art of our Necessity is strange, And can make vile things precious; my poor Knave, [Lond. Storm.]
Cold as I am at Heart, I've one place There That's sorry yet for Thee. [Exit.]
[Gloster's Palace. Enter Bastard.] ”

“ Thou hast it Boy, 'tis to be hopt indeed, On me they cast their Eyes, and hourly Court me To lead 'em on, and whilst this Head is Mine I am Theirs, a little covert Craft, my Boy, And then for open Action, 'twill be Employment Worthy such honest daring Souls as Thine. Thou, Edmund, art my trusty Emissary, Haste on the Spur at the first break of day With these Dispatches to the Duke of Combray ”

“ Shut from the Living whilst among the Living; Dark as the Grave amidst the bustling World. At once from Business and from Pleasure bar'd; No more to view the Beauty of the Spring, Nor see the Face of Kindred, or of Friend. Yet still one way th' extreamest Fate affords, And ev'n the Blind can find the Way to Death. ”

“ What do I Challenge more? Such Vanity agrees not with these Rags; When in my prosp'rous State rich Gloster's Heir, You silenc'd my Pretences, and enjoyn'd me To trouble you upon that Theam no more; Then what Reception must Love's Language find From these bare Limbs and Beggers humble Weeds? ”

“ A Serving-man proud of Heart, that curl'd my Hair, us'd Perfume and Washes, that serv'd the Lust of my Mistresses Heart, and did the Act of Darkness with her. Swore as many Oaths as I spoke Words, and broke 'em all in the sweet Face of Heaven: Let not the Paint, nor the Patch, nor the rushing of Silks betray thy poor Heart to Woman, keep thy Foot out of Brothels, thy Hand out of Plackets, thy Pen from Creditors Books, and defie the foul Fiend — still through the Hawthorn blows the cold Wind — Sess, Suum, Mun, Nonny, Dolphin my Boy — hist! the Boy, Sesey! ”

“ Speak, Friend, to one more wretched than thy self, And if thou hast one Interval of sense, Inform us if thou canst where we may find A poor old Man, who through this Heath has stray'd The tedious Night— Speak, sawest thou such a One? ”

“ Let the Great Gods, That keep this dreadfull pudder o're our Heads Find out their Enemies now, tremble thou Wretch That hast within thee undiscover'd Crimes. Hide, thou bloody Hand, Thou perjur'd Villain, holy, holy Hypocrite, That drinkst the Widows Tears, sigh now and cry These dreadfull Summoners Grace, I am a Man More sin'd against than sinning. ”

“ Generous charming Maid, The Gods alone that made, can rate thy Worth! This most amazing Excellence shall be Fame's Triumph, in succeeding Ages, when Thy bright Example shall adorn the Scene, And teach the World Perfection. ”

“ You know what mortal Feuds have alwaies flam'd Between this Duke of Cornwall's Family, and his Full Twenty thousand Mountaners Th' invetrate Prince will send to our Assistance. Dispatch; Commend us to his Grace, and Prosper. ”

“ I am already sick of expectation, And pant for the Possession — here Gloster comes With Bus'ness on his Brow; be husht my Joys. Glost.
I come to seek thee, Edmund, to impart a business of Importance; I knew thy loyal Heart is toucht to see the Cruelty of these ingratefull Daughters against our royal Master. Bast.
Most Savage and Unnatural. Glost.
This change in the State sits uneasie. The Commons repine aloud at their female Tyrants, already they Cry out for the re-installment of their good old King, whose Injuries I fear will inflame 'em into Mutiny. Bast.
'Tis to be hopt, not fear'd. Glost. ”

“ Consider, Princess, For whom thou begg'st, 'tis for the King that wrong'd Thee. Cord.
O name not that; he did not, cou'd not wrong me. Nay muse not, Gloster, for it is too likely This injur'd King e're this is past your Aid, And gone Distracted with his savage Wrongs. Bast.
I'll gaze no more— and yet my Eyes are Charm'd. Cord.
Or what if it be Worse? can there be Worse? As 'tis too probable this furious Night Has pierc'd his tender Body, the bleak Winds And cold Rain chill'd, or Lightning struck him Dead ”

“ Tell me, Fellow, dist thou give all to thy Daughters? Edg.
Who gives any thing to poor Tom, whom the foul Fiend has led through Fire and through Flame, through Bushes and Boggs, that has laid Knives under his Pillow, and Halters in his Pue, that has made him proud of Heart to ride on a Bay-trotting Horse over four inch'd Bridges, to course his own Shadow for a Traytor. — bless thy five Wits, Tom's a cold [Shivers.] bless thee from Whirlwinds, Star-blasting and Taking: do poor Tom some Charity, whom the foul Fiend vexes— Sa, sa, there I could have him now, and there, and there agen. ”

“ He has no Daughters, Sir. Lear.
Death, Traytor, nothing cou'd have subdu'd Nature To such a Lowness but his unkind Daughters. Edg.
Pillicock sat upon Pillicock Hill; Hallo, hallo, hallo. Lear.
Is it the fashion that discarded Fathers Should have such little Mercy on their Flesh? Iudicious punishment, 'twas this Flesh begot Those Pelican Daughters. Edg.
Take heed of the fow 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 a Cold. Lear. ”

“ Rise, fair Cordelia, thou hast Piety Enough t' attone for both thy Sisters Crimes. I have already plotted to restore My injur'd Master, and thy Vertue tells me We shall succeed, and suddenly. [Exit.]
Cord.
Dispatch, Arante, Provide me a Disguise, we'll instantly Go seek the King, and bring him some Relief. Ar.
How, Madam? are you Ignorant Of what your impious Sisters have decreed? Immediate Death for any that relieve him. Cord. ”

“ By all my trembling Veins Cordelia's Voice! 'Tis she her self! —My Senses sure conform To my wild Garb, and I am Mad indeed. Cord.
Whate're thou art, befriend a wretched Virgin, And if thou canst direct our weary search. Edg.
Who relieves poor Tom, that sleeps on the Nettle, with the Hedge-pig for his Pillow. Whilst Smug ply'd the Bellows She truckt with her Fellows, The Freckle-fac't Mab Was a Blouze and a Drab, Yet Swithin made Oberon jealous— Oh! Torture. Ar. ”