OSWALD.
Why then, I care not for thee.
KENT.
If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.
OSWALD.
Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.
KENT.
Fellow, I know thee.
OSWALD.
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-livered, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable, 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 deniest the least syllable of thy addition.
OSWALD.
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-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels and beat thee before the King? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw!
[Drawing his sword.]
OSWALD.
Away! I have nothing to do with thee.