Lear

A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown,

Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind—

For pity, my own tears have made me blind

That I might never see my children's frown;

And, may be, madness, like a friend, has thrown

A folded fillet over my dark mind,

So that unkindly speech may sound for kind—

Albeit I know not.—I am childish grown—

And have not gold to purchase wit withal—

I that have once maintain'd most royal state—

A very bankrupt now that may not call

My child, my child—all beggar'd save in tears,

Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate,

Foolish—and blind—and overcome with years!