Your bedded hair, like life in excrements, start up and stand on end. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce. Get thee to a nunnery, thou gorbellied hedge-born flap-dragon!
I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, thou map of woe! Thou rank tickle-brained moldwarp! I shall live to knock thy brains out. Horrible villain, I'll spurn thine eyes like balls before me; I'll unhair thy head, Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stew'd'in brine, smarting in lingering pickle.
Be not lost so poorly in your thoughts, thou froward plume-plucked lewdster!
Thou art like the toad, ugly and venomous and your face is as a book, where men may read strange matters.
Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with pudding in his belly?
Rogue, thou hast liv'd too long. We shall come leak in your chimney.
