Halt, thou pribbling ill-nurtured knave! Dost thou think to poison my potions? Thou hast more wit in thy cloven foot than in that beslubbering, beef-witted head of thine. Nay, tremble, for I shall transform thee into a toad-spotted miscreant to live in my privy, and thy vile tongue shall be rooted out for this audacity! Thinkest thou to add thy foul powder to my draughts? Then, thou wretched driveller, thou shalt drink the entire cauldron. Suffer me now, for I am the harbinger of thy ruin. By God's bones, what treachery is this? Sneaking into my sanctuary like a hungry rat? Accursed cur! Thou shalt not permit a poisoner to live--this is a truth I shall write upon thy wretched soul before I send thee to the hangman!
