OSWALD.
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.
CORNWALL.
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.
CORNWALL.
Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
OSWALD.
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?
CORNWALL.
Peace, sirrah!
You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
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 intrinse 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, an I had you upon Sarum plain,
I'd drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
