Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?

Kent.
Ay, a tailor, sir: a stonecutter or a painter could not have
made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the trade.

Corn.
Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Osw.
This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of
his grey
beard,--

Kent.
Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!--My lord, if you'll
give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar and
daub the walls of a jakes with him.--Spare my grey beard, you
wagtail?

Corn.
Peace, sirrah!
You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

Kent.
Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

Corn.
Why art thou angry?