Patroclus.
Achil.
I'll heat his Blood with Greekish Wine to Night,
Patroclus, let us Feast him to the height.
Patr.
Here comes Thersites.
Enter Thersites.
Achil.
How now, thou core of Envy?
Thou crusty batch 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?
-- 1885 --
Thir.
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?
Ther.
Prithee be silent, Boy, I profit not by thy talk,
thou art thought to be Achilles's Male-Varlet.
Patr.
Male-Varlet, 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' Backs, Lethargies, cold Palsies, and the like,
take and take again such preposterous Discoveries.
Patr.
Why, thou damnable Box of Envy, thou, what
mean'st thou to Curse thus?
Ther.
Do I Curse thee?
Patr.
Why no, you ruinous Butt, you whoreson 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 pestred 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.
[Exit.
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 Mad-men. Here's
Agamemnon, an honest Fellow enough, and one that loves
Quails, but he has not so much Brain as Ear-wax; and the
good Transformation of Jupiter there his Brother, the Bull,
the primitive Statue, and oblique Memorial of Cuckolds,
-- 1886 --
a thrifty shooting-horn in a Chain, hanging at his Brother's
Leg; to what Form, but that he 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 Thersites; for I care not to be the
Lowse of a Lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hoy-day, Spirits
and Fires.
Enter Hector, 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 Greek's 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.
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's 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.
-- 1887 --
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 Lechery; all incontinent Varlets.
[Exeunt.
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
