“Lear. 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. fool. [Sings]
He that has and a little tiny wit- With hey, ho, the wind and the rain- Must make content with his fortunes fit,”