Kent. Importune him once more to go, my lord; 165
His wits begin to unsettle.
Glo. Canst thou blame him? Storm still.
His daughters seek his death. Ah! that good Kent;
He said it would be thus, poor banish'd man!
Thou sayst the king grows mad; I'll tell thee, friend, 169
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, 172
No father his son dearer; true to tell thee,
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. 176
Edg. Tom's a-cold.
Glo. In, fellow, there, into the hovel: keep thee warm.
Lear. Come, let's in all.
Kent. This way, my lord.
Lear. With him;
I will keep still with my philosopher. 180
Kent. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.
Glo. Take him you on.
Kent. Sirrah, come on; go along with us.
Lear. Come, good Athenian.
Glo. No words, no words: hush.
Edg. Child Rowland to the dark tower came,
His word was still, Fie, foh, and fum,
I smell the blood of a British man. 187
185 Child Rowland; cf. n.
