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Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].

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SCENE II. Enter Achilles and Patroclus.

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

Ther.

You see him there, do you?

Achil.

Ay, what's the matter?

Ther.

Nay, look upon him.

Achil.

So I do, what's the matter?

Ther.

Nay, but regard him well.

Achil.

Well, why, I do so.

Ther.

But yet you look not well upon him: for whosoever you take him to be, he is Ajax.

Achil.

I know that, fool.

Ther.

Ay, but that fool knows not himself.

Ajax.

Therefore I beat thee.

Ther.

Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters; his evasions have ears thus long. I have bobb'd his brain, more than he has beat my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his Pia Mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This Lord (Achilles) Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly, and his guts in his head, I'll tell you what I say of him.

Achil.

What?

[Ajax offers to strike him, Achilles interposes.

Ther.

I say, this Ajax—

Achil.

Nay, good Ajax.

Ther.

Has not so much wit—

Achil.

Nay, I must hold you.

Ther.

As will stop the eye of Helen's needle, for whom he comes to fight.

Achil.

Peace, fool!

Ther.

I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not; he there, that he, look you there.

-- 446 --

Ajax.

O thou damn'd cur, I shall—

Achil.

Will you set your wit to a fool's?

Ther.

No, I warrant you; for a fool's will shame it.

Patr.

Good words, Thersites.

Achil.

What's the quarrel?

Ajax.

I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he rails upon me.

Ther.

I serve thee not.

Ajax.

Well, go to, go to.

Ther.

I serve here voluntary.

Achil.

Your last service was sufferance, 'twas not voluntary; no man is beaten voluntary; Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress.

Ther.

Ev'n so—a great deal of your wit too lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch, if he knock out either of your brains; he were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel.

Achil.

What, with me too, Thersites?

Ther.

There's Ulysses and old ³ ^noteNestor, (whose wit was mouldy ere your Grandsires had nails on their toes,) yoke you like draft oxen, and make you plough up the war.

Achil.

What! what!

Ther.

Yes, good sooth; to, Achilles! to, Ajax! to—

Ajax.

I shall cut out your tongue.

Ther.

'Tis no matter, I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.

Patr.

No more words, Thersites. Peace.

Ther.

I will hold my peace, ⁴ ^notewhen Achilles' brach bids me, shall I?

-- 447 --

Achil.

There's for you, Patroclus.

Ther.

I will see you hang'd like clotpoles, ere I come any more to your Tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.

[Exit.

Patr.

A good riddance.

Achil.
Marry, this, Sir, is proclaim'd through all our Host,
That Hector, by the fifth hour of the Sun,
Will, with a trumpet, 'twixt our Tents and Troy,
To morrow morning call some Knight to arms,
That hath a stomach, such a one that dare
Maintain I know not what. 'Tis trash, farewel.

Ajax.
Farewel! who shall answer him?

Achil.
I know not, 'tis put to lott'ry, otherwise
He knew his man.

Ajax.
O, meaning you. I'll go learn more of it. [Exeunt.
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