Lear.
By Thomas Hood
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!
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"A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown,..."
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