Thersites.
Ajax.
Thersites.
Ther.
Agamemnon—how if he had Biles—
full, all over generally.
[Talking to himself.
Ajax.
Thersites.
Ther.
And those Biles did run—say so—did not the
General run, were not that a Botchy core?
Ajax.
Dog.
Ther.
Then there would come some matter from him: I
see none now.
Ajax.
Thou Bitch-Wolf's Son, canst thou not hear?
Feel then.
[Strikes him.
Ther.
The Plague of Greece upon thee, thou Mungrel
beef-witted Lord.
Ajax.
Speak then, you whinid'st leaven, speak, I will beat
thee into handsomness.
Ther.
I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I
think thy Horse will sooner con an Oration, than thou learn
a Prayer without Book: Thou canst strike, canst thou? A
red Murrain o'thy Jades tricks.
Ajax.
Toads-stool, learn me the Proclamation.
Ther.
Doest thou think I have no sense, thou strik'st me thus?
Ajax.
The Proclamation.
Ther.
Thou art proclaim'd a Fool, I think.
Ajax.
Do not Porcupine, do not; my Fingers itch.
Ther.
I would thou didst itch from Head to Foot, and
I had the scratching of thee, I would make thee the loathsom'st
scab in Greece.
Ajax.
I say, the Proclamation.
Ther.
Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles,
and thou art as full of envy at his greatness, as Cerberus is
at Proserpina's Beauty. I, that thou bark'st at him.
-- 1835 --
Ajax.
Mistress Thersites.
Ther.
Thou shouldst strike him.
Ajax.
Cobloaf.
Ther.
He would pun thee into Shivers with his Fist, as a
Sailor breaks a Bisket.
Ajax.
You whorson Cur.
[Beating him.
Ther.
Do, do.
Ajax.
Thou stool for a Witch.
Ther.
Ay, do, thou sodden-witted Lord; thou hast no
more Brain than I have in mine Elbows: An Asinico may
tutor thee. Thou scurvy valiant Ass, thou art here but to
thresh Trojans, and thou art bought and sold among those
of any wit, like a Barbarian Slave. If thou use to beat me,
I will begin at thy Heel, and tell what thou art by Inches,
thou thing of no Bowels, thou.
Ajax.
You Dog.
Ther.
You scurvy Lord.
Ajax.
You Cur.
[Beating him.
Ther.
Mars his Idiot; do Rudeness, do Camel, do, do.
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 rake 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.
-- 1836 --
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.
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.
Pat.
Good Words, Thersites.
Achil.
What's the Quarrel?
Ajax.
I bad the vile Owl, go learn me the tenure of the
Proclamation, and he rails upon me.
Ther.
I serve thee not.
Ajax.
We'll, 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.
E'en so—a great a 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 Nestor, whose Wit was
mouldy e'er their Grandsires had Nails on their Toes, yoke
you like draft Oxen, and make you plough up the wair.
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.
Pat.
No more Words, Thersites.
Ther.
I will hold my peace when Achilles Brach bids me,
shall I?
Achil.
There's for you, Patroclus.
-- 1837 --
Ther.
I will see you hang'd like Clotpoles, e'er I come any
more to your Tents, I will keep where there is wit stirring,
and leave the Faction of Fools.
[Exit.
Pat.
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, and 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 will go learn more of it.
[Exit.
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].
