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Lear
by [?]


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!