Page 1851 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

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, [70]

And 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
He that has and a little tiny wit,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, [75]
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though 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: [80]
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; [85]
No squire in debt, nor no poor knight;
When slanders do not live in tongues;

Nor cut-purses come not to throngs;
When usurers tell their gold i’th’field;
And bawds and whores do churches build; [90]

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 [95] time.

(Exit.)