Tell me, dearest, what is Love? Luce:
'Tis a lightning from above,
'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,
'Tis a boy they call desire,
'Tis a smile
Doth beguile Jasper:
The poor hearts of men that prove.
Tell me more, are women true? Luce:
Some love change, and so do you. Jasper:
Are they fair, and never kind? Luce:
Yes, when men turn with the wind. Jasper:
Are they froward? Luce:
Ever toward
Those that love, to love anew.

A man who lives by the sea tells of a young boy who, preparing to eat some candy, tied the string of his kite around his waist. Suddenly, a great wind started to blow, sweeping the kite off toward the sea. The boy fell to his death. When his body was recovered, the candy was found still clutched in his hand.
(The kite speaks:)

When the wind is gentle
and I want to rise
I cannot rise.

When the wind is strong
and I want to land
I cannot land.

Noght fer passit the state of innocence,
Bot nere about the nowmer of yeris thre,
Were it causit throu hevinly influence
Off Goddis will, or othir casualtee,
Can I noght say; bot out of my contree,
By thair avis that had of me the cure,
Be see to pas tuke I myn aventure.

Purvait of all that was us necessarye,
With wynd at will, up airly by the morowe,
Streight unto schip, no longer wold we tarye,

Heigh in the hevynnis figure circulere
The rody sterres twynklyng as the fyre;
And, in Aquary, Citherea the clere
Rynsid hir tressis like the goldin wyre,
That late tofore, in fair and fresche atyre,
Through Capricorn heved hir hornis bright;
North northward approchit the mydnyght:

Quhen as I lay in bed allone waking,
New partit out of slepe a lyte tofore,
Fell me to mynd of many divers thing,
Off this and that; can I noght say quharfore,
Bot slepe for craft in erth myght I no more;
For quhich as tho coude I no better wyle,

Quhare, in a lusty plane, tuke I my way,
Endlang a ryver, plesant to behold,
Enbroudin all with fresche flouris gay,
Quhare, throu the gravel, bryght as ony gold,
The cristall water ran so clere and cold,
That in myn ere maid contynualy
A maner soun, mellit with armony;

That full of lytill fischis by the brym,
Now here, now there, with bakkis blewe as lede,
Lap and playit, and in a rout can swym
So prattily, and dressit tham to sprede
Thair curall fynnis, as the ruby rede,
That in the sonne on thair scalis bryght

Now was there maid fast by the towris wall
A gardin faire, and in the corneris set
An herber grene, with wandis long and small
Railit about; and so with treis set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knet,
That lif was none walking there forby
That might within scarse any wight aspy.

So thik the bowis and the leves grene
Beshadit all the aleyes that there were;
And middis every herber might be sene
The sharpe grene swete jenepere,
Growing so fair with branchis here and there
That, as it seemit to a lif without,

Bewailling in my chamber thus allone,
Despeired of all my joye and remedye,
For-tiret of my thought and wo-begone,
And to the wyndow gan I walk in hye,
To see the warld and folk that went forbye,
As for the tyme though I of mirthis fude
Mycht have no more, to luke it did me gude.

Now was there maid fast by the Touris wall
A gardyn faire, and in the corner's set
Ane herbere greene, with wandis long and small,
Railit about, and so with treis set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knet,
That lyf was non walkyng there forbye,

Tyr : The tyrannous and bloody act is done;
The most arch deed of piteous massacre,
That ever yet this land was guilty of,
Dighton, and Forest, whom I did suborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs,
Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like two children, in their death's sad story.
O thus , quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes , —
Thus, thus , quoth Forrest, girdling one another
Within their alabaster innocent arms:
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,

lear:Howl, howl, howl! O! you are men of stones:
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so
That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever.
I know when one is dead, and when one lives;
She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why, then she lives . . .
This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.
kent:[Kneeling]
O my good master!
lear:Prithee, away.
edgar:'Tis noble Kent, your friend.

cordelia:He wakes; speak to him.
doctor:Madam, do you; 'tis fittest.
cordelia:How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?
lear:You do me wrong to take me out o' the grave;
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
cordelia:Sir, do you know me?
lear:You are a spirit, I know; when did you die?
cordelia:Still, still, far wide.
doctor:He's scarce awake; let him alone awhile.
lear:Where have I been? Where am I? Fair day-light?
I am mightily abus'd. I should even die with pity