Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the th
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the th
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage
O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this
rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters
blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.
O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.
O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.
O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry hous
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters;
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.
I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children;
You owe me no subscription: then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man:
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That will with two pernicious daughters join
Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head
So old and white as this! O! O! ’tis foul!
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters; I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children; You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak,
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters; I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children; You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak,
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout,
The storm in Act 3 is one of the most demanding theatrical challenges in the canon. In the Elizabethan theatre, it could be suggested by thunder machines (cannon balls rolled in a drum overhead) and flashing lights, but it was primarily created by language — Lear's words had to conjure the storm in the audience's imagination. This is why the verse is so violently physical: 'crack your cheeks,' 'spout till you have drench'd our steeples,' 'strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world.' The storm must be felt as a physical presence. But it is also a metaphysical event: the outer storm mirrors Lear's inner storm, and the play is asking whether the order of the natural world and the order of the moral world are connected. When Lear divides his kingdom unjustly, does the sky respond? Shakespeare will not answer this directly — but he makes the question viscerally present.
He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece.
The codpiece that will house
Before the head has any,
The head and he shall louse:
So beggars marry many.
The man that makes his toe
What he his heart should make
Shall of a corn cry woe,
And turn his sleep to wake.
For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet
He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet
He that has a house to put’s head in has
No, I will be the pattern of all patience;
I will say nothing.
No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
No, I will be the pattern of all patienc
Who’s there?
Who’s there?
Who’s there?
Who’s there?
Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a
fool.
Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a fool.
Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a fool.
Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that
Most scenes of human beings confronting natural catastrophe involve supplication — prayer, entreaty, asking for mercy. Lear does the opposite: he commands. 'Blow, winds!' 'Spit, fire!' 'Spout, rain!' He is still operating as a king, still giving orders. This is both pathetic (the elements will not obey him) and magnificent (the orders themselves have a terrible grandeur). The shift comes mid-scene, when Lear recognizes the distinction between the impersonal storm and the personal betrayal of his daughters. At that point, command gives way to moral claim: 'I am a man more sinned against than sinning.' The arc from command to claim is the arc of the scene — and it ends with Lear following Kent to shelter, the first small act of surrender.
Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night
Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the dark,
And make them keep their caves. Since I was man,
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never
Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry
Th’affliction, nor the fear.
Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never Remember to have
Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never Remember to have
Alas, sir, are you here? Things that lov
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes
Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue
That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake
That under covert and convenient seeming
Hast practis’d on man’s life: close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and cry
These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man
More sinn’d against than sinning.
Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake That
Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake That
Let the great gods, That keep this dread
Alack, bareheaded!
Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;
Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest:
Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,—
More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d;
Which even but now, demanding after you,
Denied me to come in,—return, and force
Their scanted courtesy.
Alack, bareheaded! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest: Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,— More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d; Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in,—return, and force Their
Alack, bareheaded! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest: Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,— More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d; Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in,—return, and force Their
Alack, bareheaded! Gracious my lord, har
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.
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.
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.
My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy.
The Fool has been Lear's court jester — his licensed truth-teller, the one figure who could say what no one else could. In the comfortable world of the court, his jokes had a protected environment. In the storm, he is just cold, wet, and frightened. His jokes don't land the same way; they are quieter, more desperate. 'Court holy water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o' door' is both a practical observation (he would rather be inside, even if that means flattering Goneril) and a dark philosophical comment about what matters when survival is at stake. The Fool is beginning his slow disappearance from the play. He will speak a few more times and then be gone — no exit, no farewell — and his absence will be as significant as any speech.
He that has and a little tiny wit,
With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain,
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day.
He that has and a little tiny wit, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day.
He that has and a little tiny wit, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day.
He that has and a little tiny wit, With
True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.
True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.
True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.
True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.
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;
Nor cut-purses come not to throngs;
When usurers tell their gold i’ the field;
And bawds and whores do churches build,
Then shall the realm of Albion
Come to great confusion:
Then comes the time, who lives to see’t,
That going shall be us’d with feet.
This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.
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 po
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 po
This is a brave night to cool a courteza
The Reckoning
This is the center of the play's physical and metaphysical violence. Lear does not curse his daughters — he calls on the cosmos itself to annihilate everything: the steeples, the cocks, all germens that make ungrateful man. The storm is not an obstacle; it is Lear's ally, his mirror, his instrument. He identifies with it completely. The Fool, meanwhile, is just cold and wet and frightened — and his jokes are the most miserable comedy in Shakespeare, because they're not wrong. 'The man that makes his toe what he his heart should make shall of a corn cry woe, and turn his sleep to wake' — that is a fairy-tale logic applied to what Lear has done: promote the lesser, demote the greater. But the Fool is saying it while shivering in the rain. Then Lear's claim: 'I am a man more sinned against than sinning.' It is both true and not entirely true, and the play will not let it be simply true. Kent finds them. They go toward shelter. The Fool's last prophecy — a mock-Merlin joke — trails after them.
If this happened today…
Someone at the end of everything stands in a thunderstorm screaming at the sky. Not asking for anything. Just screaming. A friend stands nearby making dark jokes because there is nothing else to do. Another friend shows up, soaked, and says: 'There's a barn. Come inside.' The person screaming says: 'You don't understand what's been done to me.' The friend says: 'I know. Come inside anyway.'