Stew.

Good evening to thee, friend. Art of this house?

Kent.

Ay.

Stew.

Where may we set our horses?

Kent.

I'th' mire.

Stew.

Pr'ythee, if thou lov'st me, tell me.

Kent.

I love thee not.

Stew.

Why then, I care not for thee.

Kent.

If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

Stew.

Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

Kent.

Fellow, I know thee.

Stew.

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 lilly-liver'd, action-taking, knave; a whorson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that would'st 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 mungril; one whom I will beat into clam'rous whining, if thou deny'st the least syllable of thy addition.

Stew.

Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus

to rail on one, that is neither known of thee, not knows thee?

Kent.

What a brazen-fac'd varlet art thou, to deny thou know'st me? Is it two days ago, since I tript up thy heels, and beat thee before the king? Draw, you rogue: for tho' it be night, yet the moon shines; I'll make a sop o'th' moonshine of you. You whorson, cullionly, barber-monger, draw.

Stew.

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.

Stew.

Help! ho! murther! help!—

Kent.

Strike, you slave. Stand, rogue; stand, you near slave; strike.

Stew.

Help! ho! murther! murther!—