That art incestuous.Caitiff,in 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. Kent.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. Lear.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. Fool.[sings] He that has and a little tiny wit- With hey,ho,the wind and the rain- Must make content with his fortunes fit. For the rain it raineth every day. Lear.True,my good boy.Come,bring us to this hovel. Exeunt [Lear and Kent].That art incestuous. Caitiff, in 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. Kent. 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. Lear. 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. Fool. [sings] He that has and a little tiny wit- With hey, ho, the wind and the rain- Must make content with his fortunes fit, For the rain it raineth every day. Lear. True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel. Exeunt [Lear and Kent]