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Section 567
Passage 1 of 1 · section 567 of 1151
1Lear.
2My wits begin to turne.
3Come on my boy. How dost my boy? Art cold?
4I am cold my selfe. Where is this straw, my Fellow?
5The Art of our Necessities is strange,
6And can make vilde things precious. Come, your Houel;
7Poore Foole, and Knaue, I haue one part in my heart
8That's sorry yet for thee.