• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister,

Of differences, which I best thought it fit

To answer from our home. The several messengers

From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend,

Lay comforts to your bosom, and bestow

Your needful counsel to our business,

Which craves the instant use.

Glou. I serve you, madam.

Your Graces are right welcome.

Exeunt. Flourish.

Scene II. Before Gloucester's Castle.

Enter Kent and [Oswald the] Steward, severally.

Osw. Good dawning to thee, friend. Art of this house?

Kent. Ay.

Osw. Where may we set our horses?

Kent. I' th' mire.

Osw. Prithee, if thou lov'st me, tell me.

Kent. I love thee not.

Osw. Why then, I care not for thee.

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

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

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-liver'd, 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 deny 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-fac'd varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me!

Is it two days ago since I beat thee and tripp'd up thy heels

before the King? [Draws his sword.] Draw, you rogue! for, though

it be night, yet the moon shines. I'll make a sop o' th'

moonshine o' you. Draw, you whoreson cullionly barbermonger! draw!

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! murther! help!

Kent. Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue! Stand, you neat slave!

Strike! [Beats him.]

Osw. Help, ho! murther! murther!

Enter Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Gloucester, Cornwall,

Regan, Servants.

Edm. How now? What's the matter? Parts [them].

Kent. With you, goodman boy, an you please! Come, I'll flesh ye!

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 spar'd

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?

Corn. Peace, sirrah!

You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

Kent. Yes, sir, but anger hath a privilege.

Corn. 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 atwain

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!