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;