Just like the other thread, but with a bit more "thou art" thrown in.
Insult the person below with [URL="http://www.pangloss.com/seidel/Shaker/index.html?"]this[/URL].
Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!
Your bum is the greatest thing about you; so that in the beastliest sense, you are Pompey the Great.
Thou art essentially a natural coward without instinct.
Wherein [art thou] good, but to taste sack and drink it? Wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? Wherein cunning, but in craft? Wherein crafty but in villainy? Wherein villainous, but in all things? Wherein worthy but in nothing?
Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!
Thou fobbing reeling-ripe lout!
Go, ye giddy goose.
Thou wimpled fen-sucked flax-wench!
Thou caluminous tardy-gaited vassal!
oh god, this is brilliant
You, minion, are too saucy.
I'm not sure if it's an insult or a come on.
Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, that can yet do thee office?
Thou art i' th' worst rank of manhood.
"You should be women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so."
My sides
'If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.'
Majestic
Sell your face for five pence and 'tis dear.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
You are a fishmonger.
Your face is as a book, where men may read strange matters.
[You] live in the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love ove the nasty sty!
Your virginity, your old virginity is like one of our French wither'd pears: it looks ill, it eats drily.
Thou art essentially a natural coward without instinct.
"[Thou art] already dead. stabbed with a white wench's black eye, run through the ear with a love song, the very pin of [thy] heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt shaft."
uhh..
Thou infectious earth-vexing maggot-pie!
"Draw thy tool. My naked weapon is out."
You'll have to take me to dinner and a movie first.
Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity? And will you yet call yourself young?
That was a bit of a mouthful
No word to save thee.
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