4. Scene IV. A part of the Heath with a Hovel. Storm continues.
[Within.] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!
[The Fool runs out from the hovel.]
Come not in here, nuncle, here's a spirit.
Help me, help me!
Give me thy hand.--Who's there?
A spirit, a spirit: he says his name's poor Tom.
What art thou that dost grumble there i' the straw?
[Enter Edgar, disguised as a madman.]
Away! the foul fiend follows me!--
Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind.--
Hum! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.
Didst thou give all to thy two daughters?
And art thou come to this?
Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led
through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o'er
bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and
halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud
of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inched
bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor.--Bless thy five
wits!--Tom's a-cold.--O, do de, do de, do de.--Bless thee from
whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity,
whom the foul fiend vexes:--there could I have him now,--and
there,--and there again, and there.
What, have his daughters brought him to this pass?--
Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give 'em all?
Nay, he reserv'd a blanket, else we had been all shamed.
Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air
Hang fated o'er men's faults light on thy daughters!
He hath no daughters, sir.