Page 23
p. 23
The
Tragedy
of
King
Lear.
Stew.
What
dost
thou
know
me
for?
Kent.
A
Knave,
a
Rascal,
and
eater
of
broken
meats,
a
base,
proud,
shallow,
beggarly,
three-fuited,
hundred
pound,
filthy
woosted
stocking
Knave,
a
Lilly
livered,
Action-
taking,
whorson
glass
gazing,
super-serviceable
finical
Rogue,
one-Trunk-inheriting
slave,
one
that
would’st
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
Mungril
Bitch,
one
whom
I
will
beat
into
clamorous
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
knowest
me?
Is
it
two
days
since
I
tript
up
thy
heels,
and
beat
thee
before
the
King?
Draw
you
Rogue,
for
though
it
be
night,
yet
the
Moon
shines,
I’le
make
a
sop
o’th’Moonshine
of
you,
you
whorson
Culleinly
Barbar-
monger,
draw.
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'le
so
carbonado
your
shanks,
draw
you
Rascal,
come
your
ways.
Stew.
Help,
ho,
murther,
help.
Kent.
Strike
you
slave:
stand,
Rogue,
stand
you
neat
slave,
strike.
Stew.
Help
ho,
murrher,
murther.
Enter
Bastard,
Cornwal,
Regan,
Gloster,
Servant.
Bast.
How
now,
what’s
the
matter?
Part.
Kent.
With
you,
goodman
boy,
if
you
please,
come,
I'le
flesh
ye,
come
on
young
Master.
Glo.
Weapons?
Arms?
what’s
the
matter
here?
Cor.
Keep
peace
upon
your
lives,
he
dyes
that
strikes
a-
gain,
what
is
the
matter?
Reg.
The
Messengers
from
our
Sister,
and
the
King?
Cor.
What
is
your
difference,
speak?
Stew.
I
am
scarce
in
breath,
my
Lord.
Kent.
No
marvel,
you
have
so
bestir’d
your
Valour,
you
cowardly
Rascal,
nature
disclaims
in
thee:
a
Taylor
made
thee.
Corn.
Thou
art
a
strange
fellow,
a
Taylor
make
a
man?
Kent.
A
Taylor,
Sir;
a
Stone-cutter,
or
a
Painter,
could
not
have
made
him
so
ill,
though
they
had
been
but
two
years
o’th’trade.
Cor.
Speak
yet,
how
grew
your
quarrel?
Stew.
The
ancient
Ruffian,
Sir,
whose
life
I
have
spar’d
at
sute
of
his
gray
beard.
Kent.
Thou
whoreson
Zed,
thou
unnecessary
letter,
my
Lord,
if
you
will
give
me
leave,
I
will
tread
this
unboulted
villain
into
mortar,
and
daub
the
wall
of
a
Jakes
with
him,
Spare
my
gray-beard,
you
wag-tail?
Cor.
Peace,
Sirrah,
You
beastly
knave,
know
you
no
reverence?
Kent.
Yes,
Sir,
but
anger
hath
a
priviledge.
Cor.
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
art
t’intrince,
t’unloose:
smooth
every
passion
That
in
the
natures
of
their
Lords
rebel,
Being
oil
to
fire,
snow
to
the
colder
moods,
Renege,
affirm,
and
turn
their
Halcyon
beaks,
With
every
gale,
and
vary
of
their
Masters,
Knowing
nought
(like
dogs)
but
following:
A
plague
upon
your
Epileptick
visage,
Smile
you
my
speeches,
as
I
were
a
fool?
Goose,
if
I
had
you
upon
Sarum
plain
I'le
drive
ye
cackling
home
to
Camelot.
Corn.
What
art
thou
mad,
old
fellow?
Glost.
How
fell
you
out,
say
that?
95
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.
Cor.
No
more
perchance
do’s
mine,
nor
his,
nor
hers.
Kent.
Sir,
’tis
my
occupation
to
be
plain,
I
have
seen
better
faces
in
my
time,
Than
stands
on
any
shoulder
that
I
see
Before
me,
at
this
instant.
Corn.
This
is
some
fellow,
Who
having
been
prais’d
for
bluntness,
doth
affect
A
sawcy
roughness,
and
constrains
the
garb
Quite
from
his
Nature.
He
cannot
flatter,
he,
An
honest
mind
and
plain,
he
must
speak
truth,
And
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,
Then
twenty
silly-ducking
observants,
That
stretch
their
duties
nicely.
Kent.
Sir,
in
good
faith,
in
sincere
verity,
Under
th’allowance
of
your
great
aspect,
Whose
influence
like
the
wreath
of
radiant
fire
On
flicking
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
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
late
To
strike
at
me
upon
his
misconstruction,
When
he
compact,
and
flattering
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-subdued,
And
in
the
fleshment
of
this
dead
exploit,
Drew
on
me
here
again.
Kent.
None
of
these
Rogues,
and
Cowards,
But
Ajax
is
their
fool.
Corn.
Fetch
forth
the
Stocks?
You
stubborn
ancient
Knave,
you
reverent
Braggart,
We’ll
teach
you.
Kent.
Sir,
I
am
too
old
to
learn:
Call
not
your
Stocks
for
me,
I
serve
the
King;
On
whole
imployment
I
was
sent
to
you,
You
shall
do
small
respects,
shew
too
bold
malice
Against
the
Grace,
and
Person
of
my
Master,
Stocking
his
Messenger.
Corn.
Fetch
forth
the
Stocks;
As
I
have
life
and
honour,
there
shall
he
fit
’till
Noon.
Reg.
’Till
noon?
’till
night
my
Lord,
and
all
night
too.
Kent.
Why
Madam,
if
I
were
your
Father’s
dog,
You
should
not
use
me
so.
Reg.
Sir,
being
his
Knave,
I
will.
[Stocks
brought
out.
Corn.
This
is
a
fellow
of
the
self-same
colour,
Our
Sister
speaks
of.
Come,
bring
away
the
Stocks.
Glo.
Let
me
beseech
your
Grace,
not
to
do
so,
The
King
his
Master
needs
must
take
it
ill
That
he’s
so
slightly
valued
in
his
Messenger,
Should
have
him
this
restrained.
Corn.
I’le
answer
that.
Reg.
My
Sister
may
receive
it
much
more
worse,
To
have
her
Gentleman
abus’d,
assaulted.
Corn.
Come,
my
Lord,
away.
[Exit.
Glo.
I
am
sorry
for
thee,
friend,
’tis
the
Dukes
pleasure,
Whose
disposition
all
the
world
well
knows
Will
not
be
rubb’d
nor
stopt,
I’le
intreat
for
thee,
Ken.
Pray
do
not,
sir,
I
have
watch’d
and
travel'd
hard,
Some
time
I
shall
sleep
out,
the
rest
I'le
whistle:
A
good
man’s
fortune
may
grow
out
at
heels:
Give