 | just looking for good wholesome friends!!!!  blumilk: What wicked slander escapes thy rotten lips, thou whoreson impudent embossed rascal? Villain, I have done thy mother. I’ll have thee know I am a Roman general, I have partook of many wars against the Goths, and have witness’d twenty-one of my twenty-five sons struck dead by Gothic sword. I have sacrificed princes to the gods and have cook’d meat-pies of my foes. Thou appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. Foul spoken coward, that thund'rest with thy tongue, and with thy weapon nothing dares perform; methink'st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee. Hadst thou conspir’d to flee me with impunity, and evade the mighty hand of justice? Prithee, think again, thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man. I shall send messengers to my privy network of spies across the realm to unveil thy whereabouts, thou foul defacer of God's handiwork. O villain! Thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this. I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel. I will bandy with thee in faction; I will o’er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways, thou vicious mole of nature. Thy heart I’ll stamp out with my horse’s heels and make a quagmire of thy mingled brain. By this hand, I will supplant some of thy teeth; I will beat thee into handsomeness, thou poisonous bunch-back'd toad. Hadst thou known what unholy retribution thy wit would cast upon thee, perchance thou wouldst have held thy tongue. But thou couldst not; thou didst not, and thy hour of reckoning is come, thou crusty botch of nature. I shall shit fury upon thee and thou shalt drown in it. Thou art a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch. Thou art fucking dead, thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog. |
