Nuncle…
Nuncle.
Poor Tom… Poor Tom. Poor Tom…
You see me here, you gods…
a poor old man…
as full of grief as age…
wretched in both…
If it be you, that stir these daughters’
hearts against their father,
fool me not so much to bear it tamely.
Touch me with noble anger,
And let not women’s weapons,
water-drops, Stain my man’s cheeks…
No, you unnatural hags!
I will have such revenges on you both,
That all the world shall…
I will do such things…
What they are, yet I know not,
but they shall be: The terrors of the earth!
You think I’ll weep?
No. I’ll not weep.
Though I have full cause of weeping;
this heart will break into a hundred thousand flaws,
ere I’ll weep.
O fool, I shall go mad.