No more of that.

Kent.
Good my lord, enter here.

Lear.
Pr'ythee go in thyself; seek thine own ease:
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder
On things would hurt me more.--But I'll go in.--
[To the Fool.] In, boy; go first.--You houseless poverty,--
Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep.--

[Fool goes in.]

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them
And show the heavens more just.

Edg.
[Within.] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!

[The Fool runs out from the hovel.]

Fool.