Stew.

Good † ^note 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 woosted-stocking knave; a lilly-liver'd, action-taking, 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 bitch; 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, nor knows thee?

Kent.

What a brazen-fac'd varlet art thou to deny thou knowest me? is it two days 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 culleinly 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 neat slave, strike.

Stew.

Help ho! murther! murther!—