, are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport. How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Angering itself and others.--Bless thee, master! Is that the naked fellow? Ay, my lord. Then, prithee, get thee gone: if, for my sake, Thou wilt o'ertake us, hence a mile or twain, I' the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love; And bring some covering for this naked soul, Who I'll entreat to lead me. Alack, sir, he is mad. 'Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure; Above the rest, be gone. I'll bring him the best 'parel that I have, Come on't what will. Sirrah, naked fellow,-- Poor Tom's a-cold. I cannot daub it further. Come hither, fellow. And yet I must.--Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed. Know'st thou the way to Dover? Both stile and gate, horse-way and foot-path. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits: bless thee, good man's son, from the foul fiend! five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting-women. So, bless thee, master! Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier: heavens, deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover? Ay, master. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep: Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me: from that place I shall no leading need. Give me thy arm: Poor Tom shall lead thee. Welcome, my lord: I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Now, where's your master'? Madam, within; but never man so changed. I told him of the army that was landed; He smiled at it: I told him you were coming: His answer was 'The worse:' of Gloucester's treachery, And of the loyal service of his son, When I inform'd him, then he call'd me sot, And told me I had turn'd the wrong side