Chapter XX: Act II: SCENE I.--Troy

_Enter_ PRIAM, HECTOR, TROILUS, _and_ ÆNEAS.

_Priam._ After the expence of so much time and blood, Thus once again the Grecians send to Troy;-- Deliver Helen, and all other loss Shall be forgotten.--Hector, what say you to it?

_Hect._ Though no man less can fear the Greeks than I, Yet there's no virgin of more tender heart, More ready to cry out,--who knows the consequence? Than Hector is; for modest doubt is mixed With manly courage best: let Helen go. If we have lost so many lives of ours, To keep a thing not ours, not worth to us The value of a man, what reason is there Still to retain the cause of so much ill?

_Troil._ Fye, fye, my noble brother! Weigh you the worth and honour of a king, So great as Asia's monarch, in a scale Of common ounces thus? Are fears and reasons fit to be considered, When a king's fame is questioned?

_Hect._ Brother, she's not worth What her defence has cost us.

_Troil._ What's aught, but as 'tis valued?

_Hect._ But value dwells not in opinion only: It holds the dignity and estimation, As well, wherein 'tis precious of itself, As in the prizer: 'tis idolatry, To make the service greater than the god.

_Troil._ We turn not back the silks upon the merchant, When we have worn them; the remaining food Throw not away, because we now are full. If you confess, 'twas wisdom Paris went;-- As you must needs, for you all cried, _Go, go:--_ If you'll confess, he brought home noble prize;-- As you must needs, for you all clapped your hands, And cried, _Inestimable!_--Why do you now So under-rate the value of your purchase? For, let me tell you, 'tis unmanly theft, When we have taken what we fear to keep.

_Æne._ There's not the meanest spirit in our party, Without a heart to dare, or sword to draw, When Helen is defended: None so noble, Whose life were ill bestowed, or death unfamed, When Helen is the subject.

_Priam._ So says Paris, Like one besotted on effeminate joys; He has the honey still, but these the gall.

_Æne._ He not proposes merely to himself The pleasures such a beauty brings with it; But he would have the stain of Helen's rape Wiped off, in honourable keeping her.

_Hect._ Troilus and Æneas, you have said; If saying superficial things be reason. But if this Helen be another's wife, The moral laws of nature and of nations Speak loud she be restored. Thus to persist In doing wrong, extenuates not wrong, But makes it much more so. Hector's opinion Is this, in way of truth: yet, ne'ertheless, My sprightly brother, I incline to you In resolution to defend her still: For 'tis a cause on which our Trojan honour And common reputation will depend.

_Troil._ Why there you touched the life of our design: Were it not glory that we covet more Than war and vengeance, (beasts' and women's pleasure) I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood Spent more in her defence; but oh! my brother, She is a subject of renown and honour; And I presume brave Hector would not lose The rich advantage of his future fame For the wide world's revenue:--I have business; But glad I am to leave you thus resolved. When such arms strike, ne'er doubt of the success.

_Æn._ May we not guess?

_Troil._ You may, and be deceived. [_Exit_ TROIL.

_Hect._ A woman, on my life: even so it happens, Religion, state-affairs, whate'er's the theme, It ends in woman still.

_Enter_ ANDROMACHE.

_Priam._ See, here's your wife, To make that maxim good.

_Hect._ Welcome, Andromache: your looks are chearful, You bring some pleasing news.

_Andro._ Nothing that's serious. Your little son Astyanax has employed me As his ambassadress.

_Hect._ Upon what errand?

_Andro._ No less than that his grandfather this day Would make him knight: he longs to kill a Grecian: For should he stay to be a man, he thinks You'll kill them all; and leave no work for him.

_Priam._ Your own blood, Hector.

_Andro._ And therefore he designs to send a challenge To Agamemnon, Ajax, or Achilles, To prove they do not well to burn our fields, And keep us cooped like prisoners in a town, To lead this lazy life.

_Hect._ What sparks of honour Fly from this child! the gods speak in him sure: --It shall be so--I'll do't.

_Priam._ What means my son?

_Hect._ To send a challenge to the boldest Greek. Is not that country ours? those fruitful fields Washed by yon silver flood, are they not ours? Those teeming vines that tempt our longing eyes, Shall we behold them? shall we call them ours, And dare not make them so? by heavens I'll know Which of these haughty Grecians dares to think He can keep Hector prisoner here in Troy.

_Priam._ If Hector only were a private man, This would be courage; but in him 'tis madness. The general safety on your life depends; And, should you perish in this rash attempt, Troy with a groan would feel her soul go out, And breathe her last in you.

_Æn._ The task you undertake is hazardous: Suppose you win, what would the profit be? If Ajax or Achilles fell beneath Your thundering arm, would all the rest depart? Would Agamemnon, or his injured brother, Set sail for this? then it were worth your danger. But, as it is, we throw our utmost stake Against whole heaps of theirs.

_Priam._ He tells you true.

_Æn._ Suppose one Ajax, or Achilles lost, They can repair with more that single loss: Troy has but one, one Hector.

_Hect._ No, Æneas! What then art thou; and what is Troilus? What will Astyanax be?

_Priam._ An Hector one day, But you must let him live to be a Hector; And who shall make him such, when you are gone? Who shall instruct his tenderness in arms, Or give his childhood lessons of the war? Who shall defend the promise of his youth, And make it bear in manhood? the young sapling Is shrouded long beneath the mother-tree, Before it be transplanted from its earth, And trust itself for growth.

_Hect._ Alas, my father! You have not drawn one reason from yourself, But public safety, and my son's green years: In this neglecting that main argument, Trust me you chide my filial piety; As if I could be won from my resolves By Troy, or by my son, or any name More dear to me than yours.

_Priam._ I did not name myself, because I know When thou art gone, I need no Grecian sword To help me die, but only Hector's loss.-- Daughter, why speak not you? why stand you silent? Have you no right in Hector, as a wife?

_Andro._ I would be worthy to be Hector's wife: And had I been a man, as my soul's one, I had aspired a nobler name,--his friend. How I love Hector,--need I say I love him?-- I am not but in him: But when I see him arming for his honour, His country and his gods, that martial fire, That mounts his courage, kindles even to me: And when the Trojan matrons wait him out With prayers, and meet with blessings his return, The pride of virtue beats within my breast, To wipe away the sweat and dust of war, And dress my hero glorious in his wounds.

_Hect._ Come to my arms, thou manlier virtue, come! Thou better name than wife! would'st thou not blush To hug a coward thus? [_Embrace._

_Priam._ Yet still I fear!

_Andro._ There spoke a woman; pardon, royal sir; Has he not met a thousand lifted swords Of thick-ranked Grecians, and shall one affright him? There's not a day but he encounters armies; And yet as safe, as if the broad-brimmed shield, That Pallas wears, were held 'twixt him and death.

_Hect._ Thou know'st me well, and thou shalt praise me more; Gods make me worthy of thee!

_Andro._ You shall be My knight this day; you shall not wear a cause So black as Helen's rape upon your breast. Let Paris fight for Helen; guilt for guilt: But when you fight for honour and for me, Then let our equal gods behold an act, They may not blush to crown.

_Hect._ Æneas, go, And bear my challenge to the Grecian camp. If there be one amongst the best of Greece, Who holds his honour higher than his ease, Who knows his valour, and knows not his fear; Who loves his mistress more than in confession, And dares avow her beauty and her worth, In other arms than hers,--to him this challenge. I have a lady of more truth and beauty, Than ever Greek did compass in his arms; And will to-morrow, with the trumpet's call, Mid-way between their tents and these our walls, Maintain what I have said. If any come, My sword shall honour him; if none shall dare, Then shall I say, at my return to Troy, The Grecian dames are sun-burnt, and not worth The splinter of a lance.

_Æn._ It shall be told them, As boldly as you gave it.

_Priam._ Heaven protect thee! [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ PANDARUS _and_ CRESSIDA.

_Pand._ Yonder he stands, poor wretch! there stands he with such a look, and such a face, and such begging eyes! there he stands, poor prisoner!

_Cress._ What a deluge of words do you pour out, uncle, to say just nothing?

_Pand._ Nothing, do you call it! is that nothing, do you call that nothing? why he looks, for all the world, like one of your rascally malefactors, just thrown off the gibbet, with his cap down, his arms tied down, his feet sprunting, his body swinging. Nothing do you call it? this is nothing, with a vengeance!

_Cress._ Or, what think you of a hurt bird, that flutters about with a broken wing?

_Pand._ Why go to then, he cannot fly away then; then, that's certain, that's undoubted: there he lies to be taken up: but if you had seen him, when I said to him,--Take a good heart, man, and follow me; and fear no colours, and speak your mind, man: she can never stand you; she will fall, an' 'twere a leaf in autumn,--

_Cress._ Did you tell him all this, without my consent?

_Pand._ Why you did consent, your eyes consented; they blabbed, they leered, their very corners blabbed. But you'll say, your tongue said nothing. No, I warrant it: your tongue was wiser; your tongue was better bred; your tongue kept its own counsel: nay, I'll say that for you, your tongue said nothing.--Well, such a shamefaced couple did I never see, days o'my life! so 'fraid of one another; such ado to bring you to the business! Well, if this job were well over, if ever I lose my pains again with an aukward couple, let me be painted in the sign-post for the _labour in vain_: Fye upon't, fye upon't! there's no conscience in't: all honest people will cry shame on't.

_Cress._ Where is this monster to be shown? what's to be given for a sight of him?

_Pand._ Why, ready money, ready money; you carry it about you: give and take is square-dealing; for in my conscience he's as arrant a maid as you are. I was fain to use violence to him, to pull him hither: and he pulled, and I pulled: for you must know he's absolutely the strongest youth in Troy. T'other day he took Helen in one hand, and Paris in t'other, and danc'd 'em at one another at arms-end an' 'twere two moppets:--there was a back! there were bone and sinews! there was a back for you!

_Cress._ For these good procuring offices you'll be damned one day, uncle.

_Pand._ Who, I damned? Faith, I doubt I shall; by my troth I think I shall: nay if a man be damned for doing good, as thou say'st, it may go hard with me.

_Cress._ Then I'll not see prince Troilus; I'll not be accessary to your damnation.

_Pand._ How, not see prince Troilus? why I have engaged, I have promised, I have past my word. I care not for damning, let me alone for damning; I value not damning in comparison with my word. If I am damned, it shall be a good damning to thee, girl, thou shalt be my heir; come, 'tis a virtuous girl; thou shalt help me to keep my word, thou shalt see prince Troilus.

_Cress._ The venture's great.

_Pand._ No venture in the world; thy mother ventured it for thee, and thou shalt venture it for my little cousin, that must be.

_Cress._ Weigh but my fears: Prince Troilus is young.--

_Pand._ Marry is he; there's no fear in that, I hope: the fear were, if he were old and feeble.

_Cress._ And I a woman.

_Pand._ No fear yet; thou art a woman, and he's a man; put them together, put them together.

_Cress._ And if I should be frail--

_Pand._ There's all my fear, that thou art not frail: thou should'st be frail, all flesh is frail.

_Cress._ Are you my uncle, and can give this counsel to your own brother's daughter?

_Pand._ If thou wert my own daughter a thousand times over, I could do no better for thee; what wouldst thou have, girl? he's a prince, and a young prince and a loving young prince! an uncle, dost thou call me? by Cupid, I am a father to thee; get thee in, get thee in, girl, I hear him coming. And do you hear, niece! I give you leave to deny a little, 'twill be decent; but take heed of obstinacy, that's a vice; no obstinacy, my dear niece. [_Exit_ CRESSIDA.

_Enter_ TROILUS.

_Troil._ Now, Pandarus.

_Pand._ Now, my sweet prince! have you seen my niece? no, I know you have not.

_Troil._ No, Pandarus; I stalk about your doors. Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks, Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon, And give me swift transportance to Elysium, And fly with me to Cressida.

_Pand._ Walk here a moment more: I'll bring her strait.

_Troil._ I fear she will not come; most sure she will not.

_Pand._ How, not come, and I her uncle! why, I tell you, prince, she twitters at you. Ah poor sweet rogue! ah, little rogue, now does she think, and think, and think again of what must be betwixt you two. Oh sweet,--oh sweet--O--what, not come, and I her uncle?

_Troil._ Still thou flatter'st me; but pr'ythee flatter still; for I would hope; I would not wake out of my pleasing dream. Oh hope, how sweet thou art! but to hope always, and have no effect of what we hope!

_Pand._ Oh faint heart, faint heart! well, there's much good matter in these old proverbs! No, she'll not come, I warrant her; she has no blood of mine in her, not so much as will fill a flea. But if she does not come, and come, and come with a swing into your arms--I say no more, but she has renounced all grace, and there's an end.

_Troil._ I will believe thee: go then, but be sure.

_Pand._ No, you would not have me go; you are indifferent--shall I go, say you? speak the word then:--yet I care not: you may stand in your own light, and lose a sweet young lady's heart--well, I shall not go then.

_Troil._ Fly, fly, thou torturest me.

_Pand._ Do I so, do I so? do I torture you indeed? well, I will go.

_Troil._ But yet thou dost not go.

_Pand._ I go immediately, directly, in a twinkling, with a thought: yet you think a man never does enough for you; I have been labouring in your business like any moyle. I was with prince Paris this morning, to make your excuse at night for not supping at court; and I found him--faith, how do you think I found him? it does my heart good to think how I found him: yet you think a man never does enough for you.

_Troil._ Will you go then?--What's this to Cressida?

_Pand._ Why, you will not hear a man! what's this to Cressida? Why, I found him a-bed, a-bed with Helena, by my troth: 'Tis a sweet queen, a sweet queen; a very sweet queen,--but she's nothing to my cousin Cressida; she's a blowse, a gipsy, a tawny moor to my cousin Cressida; and she lay with one white arm underneath the whoreson's neck: Oh such a white, lilly-white, round, plump arm as it was--and you must know it was stripped up to the elbows; and she did so kiss him, and so huggle him!--as who should say--

_Troil._ But still thou stayest:--what's this to Cressida?

_Pand._ Why, I made your excuse to your brother Paris; that I think's to Cressida:--but such an arm, such a hand, such taper fingers! t'other hand was under the bed-cloaths; that I saw not, I confess; that hand I saw not.

_Troil._ Again thou torturest me.

_Pand._ Nay, I was tortured too; old as I am, I was tortured too: but for all that, I could make a shift, to make him, to make your excuse, to make your father--by Jove, when I think of that hand, I am so ravished, that I know not what I say: I was tortured too. [TROILUS _turns away discontented._ Well, I go, I go; I fetch her, I bring her, I conduct her; not come quotha, and I her uncle! [_Exit_ PANDARUS.

_Troil._ I'm giddy; expectation whirls me round: The imaginary relish is so sweet, That it enchants my sense; what will it be, When I shall taste that nectar? It must be either death, or joy too fine For the capacity of human powers. I fear it much: and I do fear beside, That I shall lose distinction in my joys; As does a battle, when they charge on heaps A flying enemy.

_Re-enter_ PANDARUS.

_Pand._ She's making her ready; she'll come strait: you must be witty now!--she does so blush, and fetches her breath so short, as if she were frighted with a sprite; 'tis the prettiest villain! she fetches her breath so short, as 'twere a new-ta'en sparrow.

_Troil._ Just such a passion does heave up my breast! My heart beats thicker than a feverish pulse: I know not where I am, nor what I do; Just like a slave, at unawares encountering The eye of majesty.--Lead on, I'll follow. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--_The Camp._

_Enter_ NESTOR, _and_ ULYSSES.

_Ulys._ I have conceived an embryo in my brain: Be you my time to bring it to some shape.

_Nest._ What is't, Ulysses?

_Ulys._ The seeded pride, That has to this maturity blown up In rank Achilles, must or now be cropped, Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like ill, To overtop us all.

_Nest._ That's my opinion.

_Ulys._ This challenge which Æneas brings from Hector, However it be spread in general terms, Relates in purpose only to Achilles. And will it wake him to the answer, think you?

_Nest._ It ought to do: whom can we else oppose, Who could from Hector bring his honour off, If not Achilles? the success of this, Although particular, will give an omen Of good or bad, even to the general cause.

_Ulys._ Pardon me, Nestor, if I contradict you: Therefore 'tis fit Achilles meet not Hector. Let us, like merchants, show our coarsest wares, And think, perchance they'll sell; but, if they do not, The lustre of our better, yet unshown, Will show the better: let us not consent, Our greatest warrior should be matched with Hector; For both our honour and our shame in this Shall be attended with strange followers.

_Nest._ I see them not with my old eyes; what are they?

_Ulys._ What glory our Achilles gains from Hector, Were he not proud, we all should share with him: But he already is too insolent: And we had better parch in Afric sun, Than in his pride, should he 'scape Hector fair. But grant he should be foiled; Why then our common reputation suffers In that of our best man. No, make a lottery; And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw The chance to fight with Hector: among ourselves, Give him allowance as the braver man; For that will physic the great Myrmidon, Who swells with loud applause; and make him fall His crest, if brainless Ajax come safe off: If not, we yet preserve a fair opinion, That we have better men.

_Nest._ Now I begin to relish thy advice: Come, let us go to Agamemnon strait, To inform him of our project.

_Ulys._ 'Tis not ripe. The skilful surgeon will not lance a sore, Till nature has digested and prepared The growing humours to her healing purpose; Else must he often grieve the patient's sense, When one incision, once well-timed, would serve. Are not Achilles and dull Ajax friends?

_Nest._ As much as fools can be.

_Ulys._ That knot of friendship first must be untied, Ere we can reach our ends; for, while they love each other, Both hating us, will draw too strong a bias, And all the camp will lean that way they draw; For brutal courage is the soldier's idol: So, if one prove contemptuous, backed by t'other, 'Twill give the law to cool and sober sense, And place the power of war in madmen's hands.

_Nest._ Now I conceive you; were they once divided, And one of them made ours, that one would check The other's towering growth, and keep both low, As instruments, and not as lords of war. And this must be by secret coals of envy Blown in their breast; comparisons of worth; Great actions weighed of each; and each the best, As we shall give him voice.

_Ulys._ Here comes Thersites,

_Enter_ THERSITES.

Who feeds on Ajax, yet loves him not, because he cannot love; But, as a species differing from mankind, Hates all he sees, and rails at all he knows; But hates them most from whom he most receives, Disdaining that his lot should be so low, That he should want the kindness which he takes.

_Nest._ There's none so fit an engine:--Save ye, Thersites.

_Ulys._ Hail, noble Grecian! thou relief of toils, Soul of our mirth, and joy of sullen war, In whose converse our winter nights are short, And summer days not tedious.

_Thers._ Hang you both.

_Nest._ How, hang us both!

_Thers._ But hang thee first, thou very reverend fool! Thou sapless oak, that liv'st by wanting thought, And now, in thy three hundredth year, repin'st Thou shouldst be felled: hanging's a civil death, The death of men; thou canst not hang; thy trunk Is only fit for gallows to hang others.

_Nest._ A fine greeting.

_Thers._ A fine old dotard, to repine at hanging At such an age! what saw the Gods in thee, That a cock-sparrow should but live three years, And thou shouldst last three ages? he's thy better; He uses life; he treads himself to death. Thou hast forgot thy use some hundred years. Thou stump of man, thou worn-out broom, thou lumber!

_Nest._ I'll hear no more of him, his poison works; What, curse me for my age!

_Ulys._ Hold, you mistake him, Nestor; 'tis his custom: What malice is there in a mirthful scene? 'Tis but a keen-edged sword, spread o'er with balm, To heal the wound it makes.

_Thers._ Thou beg'st a curse? May'st thou quit scores then, and be hanged on Nestor, Who hangs on thee! thou lead'st him by the nose; Thou play'st him like a puppet; speak'st within him; And when thou hast contrived some dark design, To lose a thousand Greeks, make dogs-meat of us, Thou lay'st thy cuckoo's egg within his nest, And mak'st him hatch it; teachest his remembrance To lie, and say, the like of it was practised Two hundred years ago; thou bring'st the brain, And he brings only beard to vouch thy plots.

_Nest._ I'm no man's fool.

_Thers._ Then be thy own, that's worse.

_Nest._ He'll rail all day.

_Ulys._ Then we shall learn all day. Who forms the body to a graceful carriage, Must imitate our aukward motions first; The same prescription does the wise Thersites Apply, to mend our minds. The same he uses To Ajax, to Achilles, to the rest; His satires are the physic of the camp.

_Thers._ Would they were poison to't, ratsbane and hemlock! Nothing else can mend you, and those two brawny fools.

_Ulys._ He hits 'em right; Are they not such, my Nestor?

_Thers._ Dolt-heads, asses, And beasts of burden; Ajax and Achilles! The pillars, no, the porters of the war. Hard-headed rogues! engines, mere wooden engines Pushed on to do your work.

_Nest._ They are indeed.

_Thers._ But what a rogue art thou, To say they are indeed! Heaven made them horses, And thou put'st on their harness, rid'st and spurr'st them; Usurp'st upon heaven's fools, and mak'st them thine.

_Nest._ No; they are headstrong fools, to be corrected By none but by Thersites; thou alone Canst tame and train them to their proper use; And, doing this, may'st claim a just reward From Greece and royal Agamemnon's hands.

_Thers._ Ay, when you need a man, you talk of giving, For wit's a dear commodity among you; But when you do not want him, then stale porridge, A starved dog would not lap, and furrow water, Is all the wine we taste: give drabs and pimps; I'll have no gifts with hooks at end of them.

_Ulys._ Is this a man, O Nestor, to be bought? Asia's not price enough! bid the world for him. And shall this man, this Hermes, this Apollo, Sit lag of Ajax' table, almost minstrel, And with his presence grace a brainless feast? Why they con sense from him, grow wits by rote, And yet, by ill repeating, libel him, Making his wit their nonsense: nay, they scorn him; Call him bought railer, mercenary tongue! Play him for sport at meals, and kick him off.

_Thers._ Yes, they can kick; my buttocks feel they can; They have their asses tricks; but I'll eat pebbles, I'll starve,--'tis brave to starve, 'tis like a soldier,-- Before I'll feed those wit-starved rogues with sense. They shall eat dry, and choak for want of wit, Ere they be moistened with one drop of mine. Ajax and Achilles! two mud-walls of fool, That only differ in degrees of thickness.

_Ulys._ I'd be revenged of both. When wine fumes high, Set them to prate, to boast their brutal strength, To vie their stupid courage, till they quarrel, And play at hard head with their empty skulls.

_Thers._ Yes; they shall butt and kick, and all the while I'll think they kick for me; they shall fell timber On both sides, and then logwood will be cheap.

_Nest._ And Agamemnon--

_Thers._ Pox of Agamemnon! Cannot I do a mischief for myself, But he must thank me for't?

_Ulys._ to _Nest._ Away; our work is done. [_Exeunt_ ULYS. _and_ NEST.

_Thers._ This Agamemnon is a king of clouts, A chip in porridge,--

_Enter_ AJAX.

_Ajax._ Thersites.

_Thers._ Set up to frighten daws from cherry-trees,--

_Ajax._ Dog!

_Thers._ A standard to march under.

_Ajax._ Thou bitch-wolf! can'st thou not hear? feel then.
[_Strikes him._

_Thers._ The plague of Greece, and Helen's pox light on thee, Thou mongrel mastiff, thou beef-witted lord!

_Ajax._ Speak then, thou mouldy leaven of the camp; Speak, or I'll beat thee into handsomeness.

_Thers._ I shall sooner rail thee into wit; thou canst kick, canst thou? A red murrain on thy jades tricks!

_Ajax._ Tell me the proclamation.

_Thers._ Thou art proclaimed a fool, I think.

_Ajax._ You whorson cur, take that. [_Strikes him._

_Thers._ Thou scurvy valiant ass!

_Ajax._ Thou slave!

_Thers._ Thou lord!--Ay, do, do,--would my buttocks were iron, for thy sake!

_Enter_ ACHILLES _and_ PATROCLUS.

_Achil._ Why, how now, Ajax! wherefore do you this? How now, Thersites, what's the matter, man?

_Thers._ I say this Ajax wears his wit in's belly, and his guts in's brains.

_Achil._ Peace, fool.

_Thers._ I would have peace, but the fool will not.

_Patro._ But what's the quarrel?

_Ajax._ I bade him tell me the proclamation, and he rails upon me.

_Thers._ I serve thee not.

_Ajax._ I shall cut out your tongue.

_Thers._ 'Tis no matter; I shall speak as much sense as thou afterwards. I'll see you hanged ere I come any more to your tent; I'll keep where there's wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools. [_Going._

_Achil._ Nay, thou shalt not go, Thersites, till we have squeezed the venom out of thee: pr'ythee, inform us of this proclamation.

_Thers._ Why, you empty fuz-balls, your heads are full of nothing else but proclamations.

_Ajax._ Tell us the news, I say.

_Thers._ You say! why you never said any thing in all your life. But, since you will know, it is proclaimed through the army, that Hector is to cudgel you to-morrow.

_Achil._ How, cudgel him, Thersites!

_Thers._ Nay, you may take a child's part on't if you have so much courage, for Hector has challenged the toughest of the Greeks; and it is in dispute which of your two heads is the soundest timber. A knotty piece of work he'll have betwixt your noddles.

_Achil._ If Hector be to fight with any Greek, He knows his man.

_Ajax._ Yes; he may know his man without art magic.

_Thers._ So he had need; for, to my certain knowledge, neither of you two are conjurers to inform him.

_Achil._ to _Ajax._ You do not mean yourself, sure?

_Ajax._ I mean nothing.

_Thers._ Thou mean'st so always.

_Achil._ Umh! mean nothing!

_Thers._ [_Aside._] Jove, if it be thy will, let these two fools quarrel about nothing! 'tis a cause that's worthy of them.

_Ajax._ You said he knew his man; is there but one? One man amongst the Greeks?

_Achil._ Since you will have it, But one to fight with Hector.

_Ajax._ Then I am he.

_Achil._ Weak Ajax!

_Ajax._ Weak Achilles.

_Thers._ Weak indeed; God help you both!

_Patro._ Come, this must be no quarrel.

_Thers._ There's no cause for't

_Patro._ He tells you true, you are both equal.

_Thers._ Fools.

_Achil._ I can brook no comparisons.

_Ajax._ Nor I.

_Achil._ Well, Ajax.

_Ajax._ Well, Achilles.

_Thers._ So, now they quarrel in monosyllables; a word and a blow, an't be thy will.

_Achil._ You may hear more.

_Ajax._ I would.

_Achil._ Expect.

_Ajax._ Farewell. [_Exeunt severally._

_Thers._ Curse on them, they want wine; your true fool will never fight without it. Or a drab, a drab; Oh for a commodious drab betwixt them! would Helen had been here! then it had come to something. Dogs, lions, bulls, for females tear and gore; And the beast, man, is valiant for his whore. [_Exit_ THERSITES.