Act 2, Scene 3
- Enter Edgar.
Edgar2 - 22
- I heard myself proclaim’d,
- And by the happy hollow of a tree
- Escap’d the hunt. No port is free, no place
- That guard and most unusual vigilance
- Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape
- I will preserve myself, and am bethought
- To take the basest and most poorest shape
- That ever penury, in contempt of man,
- Brought near to beast. My face I’ll grime with filth,
- Blanket my loins, elf all my hairs in knots,
- And with presented nakedness outface
- The winds and persecutions of the sky.
- The country gives me proof and president
- Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices,
- Strike in their numb’d and mortified arms
- Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary;
- And with this horrible object, from low farms,
- Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills,
- Sometimes with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,
- Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! Poor Tom!
- That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.