Bi God’s bons, hwat didest thou seien of min, thou litel cunte? Thou shalt knouen ich was gradūāten best in min classe in soldierie, and ich was in mani-fold skekeries on the Frenshe men, and I hawe more than thre hundred slaghs that ben verried. Ich am expertful in mancowe militaunce, and ich am the best longe-boue archer in all the Englisch hoste. Thou are nout to min but a newe marke. Ich wille thee sottili renden, semble-wise was neverte beholden; par fei! Thou think thou canst afforthe to speken that shite ouer the “Internet”? Think-agen, churl! as we speken nou, ich am spēking wit minen aspīeris in all of Engellonde, and thin estre bith spīen aboute noue, thus thou shalt fore-dighten before the storm, maddok! The storm that wille shenden that spītǒus frivōl thou namest “thine lif”. Thou art ded, childe. Ich can ben ought-wher, ought-tym, and ich can slen thou with ouer seven hundred methodes, and all bar-handed!
Ich am not only expertful in bar-handed baratri, but ich haue infare to the pleine armurie of the host of engelonde, and ich wille emploien hit for slen thine spitous arse, mandrake mymmerkin. If only thou cǒuthest hauen knouen what unblessed pūnīciǒun thine littel “gleu” glose was about to cause, parchaunce thou hauen holden thine tǒng stille. But thou cǒuthest nout, thou didest nout, and now thou paien for hit, thou simpleton. Ich wille casten oute furour upon thee, and thou wille senchen in hit. Thou art utterly ded, mannikin.
⣿⣿⣿⠃⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⣠⣤⣤⣤⡄⢤⣤⣤⣤⡘⠻⣿
⣿⣿⡟⠄⠄⣀⣤⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣆⢻⣿⣿⣿⡎⠝
⣿⡏⠄⢀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡎⣿⣿⣿⣿⠐
⣿⡏⣲⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢇⣿⣿⣿⡟⣼
⣿⡠⠜⣿⣿⣿⣿⣟⡛⠿⠿⠿⠿⠟⠃⠾⠿⢟⡋⢶⣿
⣿⣧⣄⠙⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣦⡀⢰⣾⣿⣿⡿⢣⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⠂⣷⣶⣬⣭⣭⣭⣭⣵⢰⣴⣤⣤⣶⡾⢐⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣷⡘⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⢃⣼⣿⣿
don't talk to me or my son ever again 
