Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!
Blow, winds, and crack open! Rage and blow! You waterfalls from the sky and hurricanes, pour down until you have drenched our churches and drowned their weather vanes! You sulfurous lightning that destroys instantly, forerunners to thunderbolts that split oak trees, burn my white head! And you all-shaking thunder, flatten the round earth! Crack nature's molds, spill all living germs at once, everything that creates ungrateful man!
Blow, winds, blow your hardest! Rage and howl! You storms and floods from the sky, pour down until you've soaked every church and drowned the roosters! You burning lightning, you forerunners of thunderbolts that split trees in half, burn my white head! And thunder that shakes everything, flatten the whole earth! Break nature's molds, destroy all life that makes ungrateful humans!
blow winds blow hard! rage & howl! floods pour down & drown everything! lightning burn my white head! thunder flatten the earth! break nature's molds
O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this
rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters
blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.
Uncle, holy water in a dry house is better than this rain water outside. Good uncle, go inside and ask your daughters' blessing. This is a night that pities neither wise men nor fools.
Uncle, being safe and dry indoors is a lot better than this rain outside. Come on, uncle, go in and make peace with your daughters. This night doesn't care about anyone—neither wise people nor fools.
uncle dry house > rain outside go in & ask daughters for blessing this night doesn't pity anyone
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters;
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.
I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children;
You owe me no subscription: then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man:
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That will with two pernicious daughters join
Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head
So old and white as this! O! O! ’tis foul!
Rumble away to your heart's content! Spit fire! Spout rain! Rain, wind, thunder, and fire are not my daughters. I don't blame you, elements, for cruelty. I never gave you a kingdom or called you children. You owe me nothing, so let fall your horrible pleasure. Here I stand as your slave, a poor, weak, and despised old man. Yet I call you servile instruments who join my two evil daughters in their battles against someone as old and white as I! It is foul!
Rumble all you want! Spit fire! Pour rain! You're not like my daughters—I don't blame you for being cruel. I never ruled you or treated you like my children, so you don't owe me anything. Go ahead, do your worst. I'm just a poor, weak, despised old man standing here at your mercy. But I'll tell you what's really wrong: you're acting like servants to my two evil daughters, joining them in their assault against someone as old and white-haired as me. It's disgusting!
rumble & pour rain all you want i don't blame you elements i never ruled you you owe me nothing i'm a weak old man at your mercy but you're serving my evil daughters joining them against me
The storm in Act 3 is one of the most demanding theatrical challenges in the canon. In the Elizabethan theatre, it could be suggested by thunder machines (cannon balls rolled in a drum overhead) and flashing lights, but it was primarily created by language — Lear's words had to conjure the storm in the audience's imagination. This is why the verse is so violently physical: 'crack your cheeks,' 'spout till you have drench'd our steeples,' 'strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world.' The storm must be felt as a physical presence. But it is also a metaphysical event: the outer storm mirrors Lear's inner storm, and the play is asking whether the order of the natural world and the order of the moral world are connected. When Lear divides his kingdom unjustly, does the sky respond? Shakespeare will not answer this directly — but he makes the question viscerally present.
He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece.
The codpiece that will house
Before the head has any,
The head and he shall louse:
So beggars marry many.
The man that makes his toe
What he his heart should make
Shall of a corn cry woe,
And turn his sleep to wake.
For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
The man who has a house for his head has sense. The man who will satisfy lust before he has shelter will end up infested with vermin. That's how beggars come to have many children. The man who treats his foot as he should treat his heart will suffer pain and lose his sleep. But look, there's never been a beautiful woman who didn't make faces at herself in a mirror.
If you've got a roof over your head, you're smart. But if you give in to lust before you have shelter, you're going to end up infested with lice. That's why beggars have so many kids. The man who prioritizes his sexual desires over his heart and feelings will suffer and lose sleep over his pain. And here's the thing about beautiful women—they all make faces at themselves in mirrors because they're vain.
have a house = you're smart lusting before shelter = you end up infested that's why beggars have kids priorityizing sex over heart = pain beautiful women all make faces in mirrors
No, I will be the pattern of all patience;
I will say nothing.
No, I will be the model of patience itself. I will remain silent.
No, I'm going to be the perfect example of patience. I won't say anything.
i'll be perfectly patient i won't say anything
Who’s there?
Who’s there?
Who’s there?
Who’s there?
Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a
fool.
Well, here is dignity and foolishness combined—that's the wise man and the fool.
Look, here's wisdom and foolishness all mixed together—the wise man and the fool.
here's the wise & foolish a wise man & fool together
Most scenes of human beings confronting natural catastrophe involve supplication — prayer, entreaty, asking for mercy. Lear does the opposite: he commands. 'Blow, winds!' 'Spit, fire!' 'Spout, rain!' He is still operating as a king, still giving orders. This is both pathetic (the elements will not obey him) and magnificent (the orders themselves have a terrible grandeur). The shift comes mid-scene, when Lear recognizes the distinction between the impersonal storm and the personal betrayal of his daughters. At that point, command gives way to moral claim: 'I am a man more sinned against than sinning.' The arc from command to claim is the arc of the scene — and it ends with Lear following Kent to shelter, the first small act of surrender.
Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night
Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the dark,
And make them keep their caves. Since I was man,
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never
Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry
Th’affliction, nor the fear.
Alas, sir, are you here? The creatures that love night do not love nights like these. The wrathful skies hang even the wanderers of the dark and make them keep to their caves. Since I was a man, I have never heard such sheets of lightning, such bursts of horrible thunder, such roaring wind and rain. Man's nature cannot endure such affliction or such fear.
Oh sir, are you here? Even the creatures that love darkness hate nights like this one. The angry sky hangs even the night creatures and drives them into their caves. In all my life, I've never heard lightning like this, thunder this loud and horrible, or wind and rain this fierce. The human mind can't handle this kind of suffering and terror.
even creatures that love darkness hate this night angry skies drive everything to caves i've never heard lightning & thunder like this wind & rain so terrible humans can't take this pain & fear
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes
Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue
That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake
That under covert and convenient seeming
Hast practis’d on man’s life: close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and cry
These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man
More sinn’d against than sinning.
Let the great gods who control this dreadful storm find out their enemies now. Tremble, you wretch, you who have hidden crimes that have never been punished. Hide yourself, you with the bloody hand. You who swore false oaths and pretend to be virtuous but commit incest. Wretch, shake yourself to pieces, you who under a good and honest appearance have done evil to mankind. Hidden guilts, break open your concealment and cry to these dreadful judges for mercy. I am a man sinned against far more than I have sinned against others.
Let the great gods who are making this dreadful storm find out who their enemies are right now. You wretch, you should tremble—you've got crimes hidden inside you that nobody has ever punished. Hide yourself, you murderer. You swore false oaths and act virtuous but you commit incest. Shame on you, you should shake apart—you've hidden your evil deeds behind a good appearance. You buried guilts, break open and cry to these terrible judges for mercy. I'm a man who has been wronged far more than I've ever wronged anyone.
gods find your enemies now tremble wretch with hidden crimes hide yourself murderer you swore false oaths you hid evil under good appearance break open buried guilt i've been wronged more than i've wronged
Alack, bareheaded!
Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;
Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest:
Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,—
More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d;
Which even but now, demanding after you,
Denied me to come in,—return, and force
Their scanted courtesy.
Oh no, you're bareheaded! Gracious lord, there is a hovel nearby. It will provide some shelter against the storm. Rest there while I return to that house—crueler than the stone it's built from. They just denied me entry when I asked after you. I'll go back and force them to show you courtesy.
Oh no, you don't even have a hat on! My lord, there's a small shelter not far from here. It will give you some protection from the storm. Go rest there while I go back to that house—which is crueler than the rocks it's built with. They wouldn't let me in when I asked about you, but I'll go back and make them give you a welcome.
you're bareheaded! there's shelter nearby go rest there i'll go back to that cruel house they wouldn't let me in i'll force them to welcome you
My wits begin to turn.
Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?
I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow?
The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel.
Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart
That’s sorry yet for thee.
My mind is starting to break. Come on, boy. How are you, boy? Are you cold? I'm cold myself. Where is this straw, fellow? It's strange that necessity can make vile things precious. Come, let's go to your shelter. Poor fool and rogue, I still have one part of my heart that feels sorry for you.
I'm losing my mind. Come on, boy. How are you holding up? Are you cold? I'm freezing too. Where's that straw, friend? It's amazing how when you're desperate, worthless things become valuable. Come on, let's get to your shelter. You poor fool and rogue, I've still got some compassion left in me for you.
losing my mind i'm freezing too where's the straw? need makes worthless things precious let's go to shelter i still feel sorry for you
The Fool has been Lear's court jester — his licensed truth-teller, the one figure who could say what no one else could. In the comfortable world of the court, his jokes had a protected environment. In the storm, he is just cold, wet, and frightened. His jokes don't land the same way; they are quieter, more desperate. 'Court holy water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o' door' is both a practical observation (he would rather be inside, even if that means flattering Goneril) and a dark philosophical comment about what matters when survival is at stake. The Fool is beginning his slow disappearance from the play. He will speak a few more times and then be gone — no exit, no farewell — and his absence will be as significant as any speech.
He that has and a little tiny wit,
With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain,
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day.
A person with even a little bit of sense must be content with however fortune treats them, even though the rain falls every day.
If you've got even a little bit of sense, you have to make the best of whatever happens to you, even when it keeps raining.
if you have any sense make peace with your fate even when it rains every day
True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.
That's true, boy. Come, take us to this shelter.
You're right, boy. Let's go to that shelter.
you're right. let's go to shelter
This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. I’ll speak a prophecy
ere I go:
When priests are more in word than matter;
When brewers mar their malt with water;
When nobles are their tailors’ tutors;
No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors;
When every case in law is right;
No squire in debt, nor no poor knight;
When slanders do not live in tongues;
Nor cut-purses come not to throngs;
When usurers tell their gold i’ the field;
And bawds and whores do churches build,
Then shall the realm of Albion
Come to great confusion:
Then comes the time, who lives to see’t,
That going shall be us’d with feet.
This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.
This is a perfect night to cool off a prostitute. I'll speak a prophecy before I go: When priests are more talk than action; when brewers water down their malt; when nobles learn fashion from their tailors; when no heretics are burned but only seducers are; when every legal case is decided rightly; when no squire is in debt and no knight is poor; when slander doesn't spread in words; when cutpurses don't work in crowds; when money lenders openly count their gold in the field; and when prostitutes build churches—then shall the kingdom of Albion come to great confusion. Then comes the time that whoever lives to see it, that people will go about using their feet. This prophecy shall Merlin make, for I live before his time.
It's a perfect night to cool down a prostitute. I'm going to make a prophecy before I leave: When priests care more about talking than doing good; when brewers cheat by watering down their beer; when nobles have to ask their tailors what's fashionable; when nobody burns heretics but everyone attacks seducers; when the law is always fair; when nobles don't owe money and knights aren't poor; when gossip doesn't spread; when thieves don't work crowds; when loan sharks openly count money; and when prostitutes build churches—then the kingdom will be in total chaos. And then will come the time when people walk around using their feet. This prophecy will come from Merlin, and I'm speaking it before he was even born.
priests talk more than act brewers water down beer nobbles learn from tailors no heretics burned law always fair no debt no poor knights no gossip or pickpockets money lenders openly count gold whores build churches then kingdom falls apart people use their feet to walk
The Reckoning
This is the center of the play's physical and metaphysical violence. Lear does not curse his daughters — he calls on the cosmos itself to annihilate everything: the steeples, the cocks, all germens that make ungrateful man. The storm is not an obstacle; it is Lear's ally, his mirror, his instrument. He identifies with it completely. The Fool, meanwhile, is just cold and wet and frightened — and his jokes are the most miserable comedy in Shakespeare, because they're not wrong. 'The man that makes his toe what he his heart should make shall of a corn cry woe, and turn his sleep to wake' — that is a fairy-tale logic applied to what Lear has done: promote the lesser, demote the greater. But the Fool is saying it while shivering in the rain. Then Lear's claim: 'I am a man more sinned against than sinning.' It is both true and not entirely true, and the play will not let it be simply true. Kent finds them. They go toward shelter. The Fool's last prophecy — a mock-Merlin joke — trails after them.
If this happened today…
Someone at the end of everything stands in a thunderstorm screaming at the sky. Not asking for anything. Just screaming. A friend stands nearby making dark jokes because there is nothing else to do. Another friend shows up, soaked, and says: 'There's a barn. Come inside.' The person screaming says: 'You don't understand what's been done to me.' The friend says: 'I know. Come inside anyway.'