Patroclus.
Achilles.
I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to night,
Which with my scimitar I'll cool to morrow.
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.
Patr.
Here comes Thersites.
Enter Thersites.
Achil.
How now, thou core of envy?(42) note
Thou crusty botch of Nature, what's the news?
Ther.
Why, thou picture of what thou seem'st, and
idol of idiot-worshippers, here's a letter for thee.
Achil.
From whence, fragment?
Ther.
Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.
Patr.
Who keeps the Tent now?
Ther.
The surgeon's box, or the patient's wound.
Patr.
Well said, adversity; and what need these tricks?
-- 99 --
Ther.
Pr'ythee, be silent, boy, I profit not by thy talk;
thou art thought to be Achilles's male-harlot.(43) note
Patr.
Male-harlot, you rogue? what's that?
Ther.
Why, his masculine whore. Now the rotten diseases
of the south, guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs, loads
o' gravel i'th' back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes,
dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of impostume,
sciatica's, lime-kilns i'th' palme, incurable boneach,
and the rivell'd fee-simple of the tetter, take and
take again such preposterous discoveries.
Patr.
Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what
meanest thou to curse thus?
Ther.
Do I curse thee?
Patr.
Why, no, you ruinous butt, you whorson indistinguishable
cur.
Ther.
No? why art thou then exasperate, thou idle
immaterial skein of sley'd silk, thou green sarcenet flap
for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal's purse, thou?
Ah, how the poor world is pester'd with such water-flies,
diminutives of nature.
Patr.
Out, gall!
Ther.
Finch-egg!
Achil.
My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite
From my great purpose in to morrow's battel:
Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba,
A token from her daughter, my fair Love,
Both taxing me, and gaging me to keep
An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it;
Fall Greek, fail fame, honour, or go, or stay,
My major vow lyes here; this I'll obey.
Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my Tent,
This night in banqueting must all be spent.
Away, Patroclus.
[Ex.
Ther.
With too much blood, and too little brain, these
two may run mad: but if with too much brain, and too
little blood, they do, I'll be a curer of madmen. Here's
-- 100 --
Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves
quails,(44) note
but he hath not so much brain as ear-wax;
and the goodly transformation of Jupiter(45) note
there his
brother, the bull, (the primitive statue, and oblique memorial
of cuckolds;) a thrifty shooing-horn in a chain,
hanging at his brother's leg; to what form, but that he
-- 101 --
is, should wit larded with malice, and malice forced with
wit, turn him to? to an ass were nothing, he is both ass
and ox; to an ox were nothing, he is both ox and ass;
to be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, a lizard,
an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would
not care: but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against
Destiny. Ask me not what I would be, if I were not
Thersites; for I care not, to be the lowse of a lazar, so I
were not Menelaus.—
Hey-day, spirits and fires!
Enter Hector, Troilus, Ajax, Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, and Diomede, with lights.
Aga.
We go wrong, we go wrong.
Ajax.
No, yonder 'tis; there, where we see the light.
Hect.
I trouble you.
Ajax.
No, not a whit.
Enter Achilles.
Ulys.
Here comes himself to guide you.
Achil.
Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, Princes all.
Aga.
So, now fair Prince of Troy, I bid good night.
Ajax commands the Guard to tend on you.
Hect.
Thanks and good night to the Greeks' General.
Men.
Good night, my lord.
Hect.
Good night, sweet lord Menelaus.
Ther.
Sweet draught—sweet, quoth a—sweet sink,
sweet sewer.
Achil.
Good night, and welcome, both at once, to Those
That go or tarry.
Aga.
Good night.
Achil.
Old Nestor tarries, and you too, Diomede,
Keep Hector company an hour or two.
-- 102 --
Dio.
I cannot, lord, I have important business,
The tide whereof is now; good night, great Hector.
Hect.
Give me your hand.
Ulys.
Follow his torch, he goes to Calchas' Tent:
I'll keep you company.
[To Troilus.
Troi.
Sweet Sir, you honour me.
Hect.
And so, good night.
Achil.
Come, come, enter my Tent.
[Exeunt.
Ther.
That same Diomede's a false-hearted rogue, a
most unjust knave: I will no more trust him when he
leers, than I will a serpent when he hisses: he will spend
his mouth and promise, like Brabler the hound; but when
he performs, astronomers foretel it, that it is prodigious,
there will come some change: the Sun borrows of the
Moon, when Diomede keeps his word. I will rather leave
to see Hector, than not to dog him: they say, he keeps a
Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas his Tent. I'll
after—Nothing but letchery; all incontinent varlets.
[Exeunt.
Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
