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!