Hold your hand, my lord:
I have serv'd you ever since I was a child;
But better service have I never done you
Than now to bid you hold.

Reg.
How now, you dog!

First Serv.
If you did wear a beard upon your chin,
I'd shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean?

Corn.
My villain!

[Draws, and runs at him.]

First Serv.
Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.

[Draws. They fight. Cornwall is wounded.]

Reg.
Give me thy sword [to another servant.]--A peasant stand up thus?

[Snatches a sword, comes behind, and stabs him.]

First Serv.
O, I am slain!--My lord, you have one eye left
To see some mischief on thim. O!