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 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 know'st me? is it two days ago 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'H make a sop o' th' moonshine of you; you whoreson, cullionly, barber-monger, draw. [Drawing his sword.

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 shanksdraw, you rogue, come your ways.

Stew. Help, ho! murder! help !——

-Kent. Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand, you neat slave, strike.

[Beating him. Stew. Help ho! murder! murder !——

(48) Son and heir. Vide note 30, on dog and cur.

Enter EDMUND, CORNWALL, REGAN, GLO'STer, and Servants.

Edm. How now, what's the matter? partKent. With you, goodman boy, if you please; come, I'll flesh ye; come on, young master. Glo. Weapons? arms? what's the matter here? Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives; he dies that strikes again; what's the matter?

Reg. The messengers from our sister and the king?

Corn. What is your difference? speak.

Stew. I am scarce in breath, my Lord.

Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirr'd your valour; you cowardly rascal! nature disclaims all share in thee: a tailor made thee.

Corn. Thou art a strange fellow; a tailor make a man? (49)

Kent. Ay, a tailor, Sir; a stone-cutter, or a painter could not have made him so ill, tho' they had been but two hours o' th' trade.

Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

(49) The steward's face is intercepted between the fork of what resembles a pair of tailor's shears, as drawn in fig. 11, ante.

Stew. This ancient ruffian, Sir, whose life I have spar'd at suit of his grey beard-———

Kent. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! (50) My Lord, if you would give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain unto mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard? you wag-tail!

Corn. Peace, sirrah!

You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
Kent. Yes, Sir, but anger hath a privilege.
Corn. Why art thou angry?

[sword,

Kent. That such a slave as this should wear a Who wears no honesty: such smiling rogues as Like rats, oft bite the holy cords in twain [these, Too intrinsicate t' unloose; sooth every passion That in the nature of their lords rebels;

(50) On comparing the shape of the shadows which compose the face and beard of the steward, with Fig. 91,

it will explain the reason of Kent's calling him the unne

cessary letter zed.

Being oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;
Renege, affirm, and turn, their halcyon beaks
With ev'ry gale and vary of their masters,
As knowing nought, like dogs, but following.
A plague upon your epileptic visage!
Smile you my speeches as I were a fool?
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain,
I'd drive you cackling home to Camelot.
Corn. What, art thou mad old fellow ?
Glo. How fell you out? say that.

Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy
Than I and such a knave.

Corn. Why dost thou call him knave? what is his fault?

Kent. His countenance likes me not. [nor her's. Corn. No more perchance does mine, nor his, Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain:

I have seen better fuces in

my

time

Than stand on any shoulders that I see

Before me at this instant.

Corn. This is some fellow,

Who having been prais'd for bluntness, doth affect
A saucy roughness; and constrains the garb
Quite from his nature. He can't flatter, he
An honest mind, and plain, he must speak truth;
An' they will take it, so; if not, he's plain.
These kind of knaves I know, which in this
plainness

Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends
Than twenty silky ducking observants,
That stretch their duties nicely.

Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th' allowance of your grand respect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phœbus' 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 beguil'd you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to intreat me to't. Corn. What was th' offence you gave him? Stew. I never gave him any.

It pleas'd the King his master very lately
To strike at me upon his misconstruction:
When he conjunct and flatt'ring his displeasure,
Tript me behind: being down, insulted, rail'd,
And put upon him such a deal of man,
That worthied him; got praises of the King,
For him attempting who was self-subdu'd ;
And, in the flashment of this dread exploit,
Drew on me here again.

Kent. None of these rogues and cowards,
But Ajax is their foil.

Corn. Fetch forth the stocks.

You stubborn ancient knave, you rev'rend braggart,