I scorn you, scurvy companion.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore.
The rankest compound of villainous smell
that ever offended nostril.
I am sick when I do look on thee.
I’ll beat thee, but I would infect my hands
Thou cream faced loon.
Thou lump of foul deformity.
Thou art as fat as butter.
Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon.
You are as a candle, the better burnt out.
A most notable coward,
an infinite and endless liar,
an hourly promise breaker,
the owner of no one good quality.
Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.
Thou art unfit for any place but hell.
Away, you three-inch fool!
