Lear.
Let me ask you one word in private.

Kent.
Importune him once more to go, my lord;
His wits begin to unsettle.

Glou.
Canst thou blame him?
His daughters seek his death:--ah, that good Kent!--
He said it would be thus,--poor banish'd man!--
Thou say'st the king grows mad; I'll tell thee, friend,
I am almost mad myself: I had a son,
Now outlaw'd from my blood; he sought my life
But lately, very late: I lov'd him, friend,--
No father his son dearer: true to tell thee,
[Storm continues.]
The grief hath craz'd my wits.--What a night's this!--
I do beseech your grace,--

Lear.
O, cry you mercy, sir.--
Noble philosopher, your company.

Edg.
Tom's a-cold.

Glou.
In, fellow, there, into the hovel; keep thee warm.