LEAR Rumble thy bellyful! Spit fire! Spout rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. I tax not you, you elements, with16 unkindness: I never gave you kingdom, called you children; You owe me no subscription18. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave, A poor, infirm, weak and despised old man: But yet I call you servile ministers21, That will with two pernicious22 daughters join Your high-engendered battles gainst a head23 So old and white as this. O, ho, ’tis foul24!
