KENT.
Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.
CORNWALL.
Why art thou angry?
KENT.
That such a slave as this should wear a sword,
Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,
Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain
Which are too intrince t’unloose; smooth every passion
That in the natures of their lords rebel;
Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks
With every gale and vary of their masters,
Knowing naught, like dogs, but following.
A plague upon your epileptic visage!
Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain,
I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
CORNWALL.
What, art thou mad, old fellow?
GLOUCESTER.
How fell you out? Say that.
KENT.
No contraries hold more antipathy
Than I and such a knave.
CORNWALL.
Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?
KENT.
His countenance likes me not.
CORNWALL.
No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers.
KENT.
Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain:
I have seen better faces in my time
Than stands on any shoulder that I see
Before me at this instant.