In the hurricane on the blasted heath at night and in the thunder, the foolish old King confesses to his Fool:
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your homeless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en
Too little care of this! Take physic pomp;
Expose thyself to what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux [superfluities of life] to them,
And show the heavens more just.
-King Lear, III, iv. 28
He is the storm itself.