Fellow, I know thee. 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, pandar, and the son and heir of a mungril bitch; one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deni’st the least syllable of thy addition. What a brazen-fac’d varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me? Is it two days since I tripp’d up thy heels, and beat thee before the King? Draw, you rogue, for though it be night, yet the moon shines;
I’ll make a sop o’ th’ moonshine of you, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw! 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. Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue, stand, you neat slave! Strike!