LEAR.
I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban. —
What is your study?
EDGAR.
How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin.
LEAR.
Let me ask you one word in private.
KENT.
Importune him once more to go, my lord;
His wits begin to unsettle.
GLOUCESTER.
Canst thou blame him?
His daughters seek his death: — ah, that good Kent! —
He said it would be thus, — poor banish'd man! —
Thou say'st the king grows mad; I'll tell thee, friend,
I am almost mad myself: I had a son,
Now outlaw'd from my blood; he sought my life
But lately, very late: I lov'd him, friend, —
No father his son dearer: true to tell thee,
[Storm continues.]
The grief hath craz'd my wits. — What a night's this! —
I do beseech your grace, —
LEAR.
O, cry you mercy, sir. —
Noble philosopher, your company.
EDGAR.
Tom's a-cold.
