Shakespeare's First Folio Part 602

Exeunt. Flourish.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Kent, and Steward seuerally.

Stew. Good dawning to thee Friend, art of this house?

Kent. I

Stew. Where may we set our horses?

Kent. I'th' myre

Stew. Prythee, if thou lou'st me, tell me

Kent. I loue thee not

Ste. Why then I care not for thee

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

Ste. Why do'st thou vse me thus? I know thee not

Kent. Fellow I know thee

Ste. What do'st thou know me for?

Kent. A Knaue, a Rascall, an eater of broken meates, a base, proud, shallow, beggerly, three-suited-hundred pound, filthy woosted-stocking knaue, a Lilly-liuered, action-taking, wh.o.r.eson gla.s.se-gazing super-seruiceable finicall Rogue, one Trunke-inheriting slaue, one that would'st be a Baud in way of good seruice, and art nothing but the composition of a Knaue, Begger, Coward, Pandar, and the Sonne and Heire of a Mungrill b.i.t.c.h, one whom I will beate into clamours whining, if thou deny'st the least sillable of thy addition

Stew. Why, what a monstrous Fellow art thou, thus to raile on one, that is neither knowne of thee, nor knowes thee?

Kent. What a brazen-fac'd Varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me? Is it two dayes since I tript vp thy heeles, and beate thee before the King? Draw you rogue, for though it be night, yet the Moone s.h.i.+nes, Ile make a sop oth' Moons.h.i.+ne of you, you wh.o.r.eson Cullyenly Barber-monger, draw

Stew. Away, I haue nothing to do with thee

Kent. Draw you Rascall, you come with Letters against the King, and take Vanitie the puppets part, against the Royaltie of her Father: draw you Rogue, or Ile so carbonado your shanks, draw you Rascall, come your waies

Ste. Helpe, ho, murther, helpe

Kent. Strike you slaue: stand rogue, stand you neat slaue, strike

Stew. Helpe hoa, murther, murther.

Enter b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants.

Bast. How now, what's the matter? Part

Kent. With you goodman Boy, if you please, come, Ile flesh ye, come on yong Master

Glo. Weapons? Armes? what's the matter here?

Cor. Keepe peace vpon your liues, he dies that strikes againe, what is the matter?

Reg. The Messengers from our Sister, and the King?

Cor. What is your difference, speake?

Stew. I am scarce in breath my Lord

Kent. No Maruell, you haue so bestir'd your valour, you cowardly Rascall, nature disclaimes in thee: a Taylor made thee

Cor. Thou art a strange fellow, a Taylor make a man?

Kent. A Taylor Sir, a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could not haue made him so ill, though they had bin but two yeares oth' trade

Cor. Speake yet, how grew your quarrell?

Ste. This ancient Ruffian Sir, whose life I haue spar'd at sute of his gray-beard

Kent. Thou wh.o.r.eson Zed, thou vnnecessary letter: my Lord, if you will giue me leaue, I will tread this vnboulted villaine into morter, and daube the wall of a Iakes with him. Spare my gray-beard, you wagtaile?

Cor. Peace sirrah, You beastly knaue, know you no reuerence?

Kent. Yes Sir, but anger hath a priuiledge

Cor. Why art thou angrie?

Kent. That such a slaue as this should weare a Sword, Who weares no honesty: such smiling rogues as these, Like Rats oft bite the holy cords a twaine, Which are t' intrince, t' vnloose: smooth euery pa.s.sion That in the natures of their Lords rebell, Being oile to fire, snow to the colder moodes, Reuenge, affirme, and turne their Halcion beakes With euery gall, and varry of their Masters, Knowing naught (like dogges) but following: A plague vpon your Epilepticke visage, Smoile you my speeches, as I were a Foole?

Goose, if I had you vpon Sarum Plaine, I'ld driue ye cackling home to Camelot

Corn. What art thou mad old Fellow?

Glost. How fell you out, say that?

Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy, Then I, and such a knaue

Corn. Why do'st thou call him Knaue?

What is his fault?

Kent. His countenance likes me not

Cor. No more perchance do's mine, nor his, nor hers

Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plaine, I haue seene better faces in my Time, Then stands on any shoulder that I see Before me, at this instant

Corn. This is some Fellow, Who hauing beene prais'd for bluntnesse, doth affect A saucy roughnes, and constraines the garb Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter he, An honest mind and plaine, he must speake truth, And they will take it so, if not, hee's plaine.

These kind of Knaues I know, which in this plainnesse Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends, Then twenty silly-ducking obseruants, That stretch their duties nicely

Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Vnder th' allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence like the wreath of radient fire On flickring Phoebus front

Corn. What mean'st by this?

Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much; I know Sir, I am no flatterer, he that beguild you in a plaine accent, was a plaine Knaue, which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me too't

Corn. What was th' offence you gaue him?

Ste. I neuer gaue him any: It pleas'd the King his Master very late To strike at me vpon his misconstruction, When he compact, and flattering his displeasure Tript me behind: being downe, insulted, rail'd, And put vpon him such a deale of Man, That worthied him, got praises of the King, For him attempting, who was selfe-subdued, And in the fleshment of this dead exploit, Drew on me here againe

Kent. None of these Rogues, and Cowards But Aiax is there Foole

Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks?

You stubborne ancient Knaue, you reuerent Bragart, Wee'l teach you

Kent. Sir, I am too old to learne: Call not your Stocks for me, I serue the King.

On whose imployment I was sent to you, You shall doe small respects, show too bold malice Against the Grace, and Person of my Master, Stocking his Messenger