Enter EDMUND, with his rapier drawn, CORNWALL,
REGAN, GLOUCESTER, and Servants.
EDMUND: How now! What's the matter? 
KENT: With you, goodman boy, and you please:
come, I'll flesh ye; come on, young master.
GLOUCESTER: Weapons! arms! What's the matter
CORNWALL: Keep peace, upon your lives: He dies 
that strikes again. What is the matter?
REGAN: The messengers from our sister and the king.
CORNWALL: What is your difference? speak.
OSWALD: I am scarce in breath, my lord.
KENT: No marvel, you have so bestirred your valour. 
You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee: a
tailor made thee.
CORNWALL: Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make
KENT: Ay, a tailor, sir: a stone-cutter or painter could 
not have made him so ill, though he had been but
two hours at the trade.
CORNWALL: Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
OSWALD: This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have
spared at suit of his gray beard,-- 
KENT: Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!
My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this
unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a
jakes with him. Spare my gray beard, you wagtail?
CORNWALL: Peace, sirrah! 
You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
KENT: Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.
CORNWALL: 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 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 ye cackling home to Camelot.
CORNWALL: Why, art thou mad, old fellow?
GLOUCESTER: How fell you out? say that.
KENT: No contraries hold more antipathy
Than I and such a knave. 
CORNWALL: Why dost thou call him a knave? What's his offence?
KENT: His countenance likes me not.
CORNWALL: No more, perchance, does 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.