Come not in here, nuncle, here's a spirit.
Help me, help me!

Kent.
Give me thy hand.--Who's there?

Fool.
A spirit, a spirit: he says his name's poor Tom.

Kent.
What art thou that dost grumble there i' the straw?
Come forth.

[Enter Edgar, disguised as a madman.]

Edg.
Away! the foul fiend follows me!--
Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind.--
Hum! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.

Lear.
Didst thou give all to thy two daughters?
And art thou come to this?

Edg.
Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led
through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o'er
bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and
halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud
of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inched