King Lear

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-livered, 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
denyest 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-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is
it two days ago since I beat thee and tripped up thy heels 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 barbermonger, draw!

[Drawing his sword.]

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! murder! help!

Kent.
Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike!

[Beating him.]

Osw.
Help, ho! murder! murder!

[Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan, Gloster, and Servants.]

Edm.
How now! What's the matter?

Kent.
With you, goodman boy, an you please: come, I'll flesh you; 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 spared 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 into mortar and
daub the walls of a jakes with him.--Spare my grey beard, you
wagtail?