Fool.
Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
Fathers that wear rags
Do make their children blind;
But fathers that bear bags
Shall see their children kind.
Fortune, that arrant whore,
Ne'er turns the key to th' poor.
But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy
daughters as thou canst tell in a year.

Lear.
O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!
Hysterica passio,--down, thou climbing sorrow,
Thy element's below!--Where is this daughter?

Kent.
With the earl, sir, here within.

Lear.
Follow me not;
Stay here.

[Exit.]

Gent.
Made you no more offence but what you speak of?

Kent.