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Kent. I love thee not.
Osw. Why then, I care not for thee.
Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make thee care
for
me.
Osw. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.
Kent. Fellow, I know thee.
Osw. What dost thou know me for?
Kent. A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base,
proud,
shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy,
worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking,
whoreson,
glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in
way of
good service, and art nothing but the composition of a
knave,
beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel
bitch;
one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deny
the
least syllable of thy addition.
Osw. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one
that's neither known of thee nor knows thee!
Kent. What a brazen-fac'd varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest
me!
Is it two days ago since I beat thee and tripp'd up thy
heels
before the King? [Draws his sword.] Draw, you rogue! for,
though
it be night, yet the moon shines. I'll make a sop o' th'
moonshine o' you. Draw, you whoreson cullionly barbermonger!
draw!
Osw. Away! I have nothing to do with thee.
Kent. Draw, you rascal! You come with letters against the King,
and
take Vanity the puppet's part against the royalty of her
father.
Draw, you rogue, or I'll so carbonado your shanks! Draw, you
rascal! Come your ways!
Osw. Help, ho! murther! help!
Kent. Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue! Stand, you neat slave!
Strike! [Beats him.]
Osw. Help, ho! murther! murther!

Enter Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Gloucester, Cornwall,
Regan, Servants.

Edm. How now? What's the matter? Parts [them].
Kent. With you, goodman boy, an you please! Come, I'll flesh
ye!
Come on, young master!
Glou. Weapons? arms? What's the matter here?
Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives!
He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?
Reg. The messengers from our sister and the King
Corn. What is your difference? Speak.
Osw. I am scarce in breath, my lord.
Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirr'd your valour. You
cowardly
rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.
Corn. Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man?
Kent. Ay, a tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could not
have
made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the
trade.
Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
Osw. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spar'd
At suit of his grey beard-
Kent. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if
you'll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain

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