Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Lear. Ha' practis'd on mans life. Close pent‐vp guilts,
Lear. Riue your concealing Continents, and cry
Lear. These dreadfull Summoners grace. I am a man,
Lear. More sinn'd against, then sinning.
Kent. Kent.
Kent. Alacke, bare‐headed?
Kent. Gracious my Lord, hard by heere is a Houell,
Kent. Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the Tempest:
Kent. Repose you there, while I to this hard house,
Kent. (More harder then the stones whereof 'tis rais'd,
Kent. Which euen but now, demanding after you,
Kent. Deny'd me to come in) returne, and force
Kent. Their scanted curtesie.
Lear. Lear.
Lear. My wits begin to turne.
Lear. Come on my boy. How dost my boy? Art cold?
Lear. I am cold my selfe. Where is this straw, my Fellow?
Lear. The Art of our Necessities is strange,
Lear. And can make vilde things precious. Come, your Houel;
Lear. Poore Foole, and Knaue, I haue one part in my heart