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.
[Singing.]
He that has and a little tiny wit —
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, —
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
For the rain it raineth every day.
LEAR.
True, boy. — Come, bring us to this hovel.
[Exeunt Lear and Kent.]
FOOL.
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 cutpurses 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.
[Exit.]
