
Shakespeare Insults
From Coriolanus
What's the matter you dissentious rogue that, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, make yourselves scabs ?
He that depends upon your favours swims with fins of lead, and hews down oaks with rushes
Boils and plagues plaster you over, that you may be abhorred farther than seen and one infect another against the wind a mile. You souls of geese that bear the shapes of men
I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables
Priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you
Your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's cushion or to be entombed in as ass's pack saddle
More of your conversation would infect my brain
He's a disease that must be cut away
You are the must chaff, and you are smelt above the moon
The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes, when he walks he moves like an engine and the ground shrinks before his treading
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