Cal.
Now, Princes, for the Service I have done you,
Th' advantage of the time prompts me aloud,
To call for recompence: Appear it to your Mind,
That through the sight I bear in things to come,
I have abandon'd Troy, left my Possession,
Incurr'd a Traitor's Name, expos'd my self,
From certain and possest Conveniencies,
To doubtful Fortunes, sequestring from me all
That Time, Acquaintance, Custom, and Condition,
Made tame, and most familiar to my Nature:
And here to do you Service am become
As new into the World, strange, unacquainted.
I do beseech you, as in way of taste,
To give me now a little benefit,
Out of those many Registred in Promise,
Which you say live to come in my behalf.

Aga.
What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? Make demand.

Cal.
You have a Trojan Prisoner, call'd Anthenor,
Yesterday took: Troy holds him very dear.
Oft have you (often have you, Thanks therefore)
Desir'd my Cressid in right great Exchange,
Whom Troy hath still deny'd: But this Anthenor,
I know, is such a wrest in their Affairs,
That their Negotiations all must slack,
Wanting this Manage; and they will almost
Give us a Prince o' th' Blood, a Son of Priam,
In change of him. Let him be sent, great Princes,
And he shall buy my Daughter: And her presence
Shall quite strike off all Service I have done,
In most accepted pain.

Aga.
Let Diomedes bear him,
And bring us Cressid hither: Calchas shall have
What he requests of us: Good Diomede,
Furnish you fairly for this enterchange;
With all, bring Word, if Hector will to Morrow
Be answer'd in his Challenge. Ajax is ready.

Dio.
This shall I undertake, and 'tis a burthen
Which I am proud to bear. [Ex.it Enter Achilles and Patroclus, in their Tent.

Ulys.
Achilles stands i'th' entrance of his Tent;
Please it our General to pass strangely by him,
As if he were forgot; and Princes all,
Lay negligent and loose regard upon him:
I will come last, 'tis like he'll question me,
Why such unplausive Eyes are bent? why turn'd on him?
If so, I have Decision medicinable,
To use between our Strangeness and his Pride,
Which his own Will shall have desire to drink;
It may do good: Pride hath no other Glass
To shew it self, but Pride; for supple Knees
Feed Arrogance, and are the proud Man's Fees.

Aga.
We'll execute your Purpose, and put on
A form of Strangeness as we pass along,
So do each Lord, and either greet him not,
Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more,
Then if not look'd on. I will lead the Way.

Achil.
What, comes the General to speak with me?
You know my Mind. I'll fight no more 'gainst Troy.

Aga.
What says Achilles, would he ought with us?

Nest.
Would you, my Lord, ought with the General?

Achil.
No.

Nest.
Nothing, my Lord.

Aga.
The better.

Achil.
Good Day, good Day,

Men.
How do you? How do you?

Achil.
What, does the Cuckold scorn me?

Aja.
How now, Patroclus?

Achil.
Good Morrow, Ajax.

Aja.
Ha.

Achil.
Good Morrow.

Aja.
Ay, and good next Day too. [Exeunt.

Achil.
What mean these Fellows? Know they not Achilles?

Patr.
They pass strangely: They were us'd to bend,
To send their Smiles before them to Achilles:
To come as humbly as they us'd to creep to Holy Altars.

Achil.
What, am I poor of late?
'Tis certain, Greatness once fall'n out with Fortune,

Must fall out with Men too: What the declin'd is,
He shall as soon read in the Eyes of others,
As feel in his own Fall: For Men, like Butter-flies,
Shew not their mealy Wings, but to the Summer;
And not a Man, for being simple Man,
Hath any Honour, but honour'd by those Honours
That are without him; as Place, Riches, Favour,
Prizes of Accident, as oft as Merit:
Which when they fall (as being slippery standers)
The Love that lean'd on them as slippery too,
Doth one pluck down another, and together
Dye in the Fall: But 'tis not so with me,
Fortune and I are Friends, I do enjoy
At ample point all that I did possess,
Save these Mens Looks, who do methinks find out
Something in me not worth that rich Beholding,
As they have often given. Here is Ulysses,
I'll interrupt his Reading.—How now Ulysses?

Ulys.
Now, great Thetis Son!

Achil.
What, are you reading?

Ulys.
A strange Fellow here
Writes me, that Man, how dearly ever parted,
How much in having, or without, or in,
Cannot make boast to have that which he hath;
Nor feels not what he ows, but by Reflection,
As when his Virtues shining upon others,
Heat them, and they retort that Heat again
To the first Giver.

Achil.
This is not strange, Ulysses,
The Beauty that is born here in the Face,
The Bearer knows not, but commends it self,
Not going from it self, but Eye to Eye oppos'd.
Salute each other, with each others Form.
For Speculation turns not to it self,
'Till it hath travell'd, and is marry'd there
Where it may see it self; this is not strange at all.

Ulys.
I do not strain at the Position,
It is familiar; but at the Author's drift;
Who in his Circumstance, expresly proves
That no Man is the Lord of any thing,
(Tho' in and of him) there is much consisting,

'Till he communicate his Parts to others:
Nor doth he of himself know them for ought,
'Till he behold them formed in th' Applause,
Where they're extended: Which like an Arch reverb'rates
The Voice again, or like a Gate of Steel,
Fronting the Sun, receives and renders back
His Figure, and his Heat. I was much rapt in this,
And apprehended here immediately
The unknown Ajax.
Heavens! What a Man is there? A very Horse,
That as he knows not Nature, what things are
Most abject in Regard, and dear in Use;
What things again most dear in the Esteem,
And poor in Worth: Now shall we see to Morrow,
An act that very Chance doth throw upon him:
Ajax renown'd! O Heavens, what some Men do,
While some Men leave to do!
How some Men creep in skittish Fortune's Hall,
Whiles others play the Idiots in her Eyes:
How one Man eats into another's Pride,
While Pride is feasting in his Wantonness!
To see these Grecian Lords; why, even already,
They clap the Lubber Ajax on the Shoulder,
As if his Foot were on brave Hector's Breast,
And great Troy shrinking.

Achil.
I do believe it,
For they past by me, as Misers do by Beggars,
Neither gave to me good word, nor good look:
VVhat, are my Deeds forgot?

Ulys.
Time hath, my Lord, a Wallet at his Back,
Wherein he puts Alms for Oblivion:
A great-siz'd Monster of Ingratitudes:
Those scraps are good Deeds past,
Which are devour'd as fast as they are made,
Forgot as soon as done: Perseverance, dear my Lord,
Keeps Honour bright: To have done, is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty Male
In monumental Mock'ry: Take the instant way,
For Honour travels in a Straight so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast, keep then the Path,
For Emulation hath a thousand Sons,

That one by one pursue; if you give Way
Or hedge aside from the direct forth-right,
Like to an entred Tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmost;
Or like a gallant Horse fall'n in first Rank,
Lye there for Pavement to the abject, near
O'er-run and trampl'd on: Then what they do in present
Tho' less than yours in past, must o'er-top yours:
For Time is like a fashionable Host,
That slightly shakes his parting Guest by th' Hand;
And with his Arms out-stretch'd, as he would fly,
Grasps in the Comer; the Welcome ever smiles,
And Farewel goes out sighing: O let not Virtue seek
Remuneration for the thing it was; for Beauty, Wit,
High-birth, Vigor of Bone, Desert in Service,
Love, Friendship, Charity, are Subjects all
To envious and calumniating Time:
One touch of Nature makes the whole World Kin;
That all with one consent praise new-born Gauds,
Tho' they are made and moulded of things past,
And go to Dust, that is, a little Gilt;
More Laud in Gilt o'er-dusted.
The present Eye, praises the present Object.
Then marvel not, thou great and compleat Man,
That all the Greeks begin to Worship Ajax;
Since things in motion 'gin to catch the Eye;
Then what not stirs? the Cry went out on thee,
And still it might, and yet it may again,
If thou would'st not entomb thy self alive,
And case thy Reputation in thy Tent;
Whose glorious Deeds, but in these Fields of late,
Made emulous missions 'mongst the Gods themselves,
And drave great Mars to Faction.

Achil.
Of this my Privacy,
I have strong Reasons.

Ulys.
But 'gainst your Privacy,
The Reasons are more potent and heroical:
'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in Love
With one of Priam's Daughters.

Achil.
Ha! known?

Ulys.
Is that a wonder?
The Providence that's in a watchful State,
Knows almost every grain of Pluto's Gold;
Finds bottom in th' uncomprehensive deep,
Keeps place with thought; and, almost like the Gods,
Does thoughts unveil in their dumb Cradles:
There is a Mystery (with whom relation
Durst never meddle) in the Soul of State;
Which hath an Operation more divine,
Than Breath or Pen can give expressure to:
All the commerce that you have had with Troy,
As perfectly is ours, as yours, my Lord.
And better would it fit Achilles much,
To throw down Hector, than Polyxena.
But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home,
When Fame shall in her Island sound her Trump;
And all the Greekish Girls shall tripping sing,
Great Hector's Sister did Achilles win;
But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.
Farewel, my Lord—I, as your Lover, speak;
The Fool slides o'er the Ice that you should break.

Patr.
To this effect, Achilles, have I mov'd you;
A Woman, impudent, and mannish grown,
Is not more loath'd than an effeminate Man,
In time of Action: I stand condemn'd for this;
They think my little stomach to the War,
And your great love to me, restrains you thus:
Sweet, rouse your self; and the weak wanton Cupid
Shall from your Neck unloose his amorous fold,
And like a dew-drop from the Lion's mane,
Be shook to airy Air.

Achil.
Shall Ajax fight with Hector!—

Patr.
Ay, and perhaps receive much Honour by him.

Achil.
I see my Reputation is at stake,
My Fame is shrewdly gor'd.

Patr.
O then beware:
Those wounds heal ill that Men do give themselves:
Omission to do what is necessary,
Seals a Commission to a blank of Danger,
And Danger, like an Ague, subtly taints
Even then when we sit idly in the Sun.

Achil.
Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus,
I'll send the Fool to Ajax, and desire him
T' invite the Trojan Lords, after the Combat,
To see us here unarm'd: I have a Woman's longing,
An Appetite that I am sick withal,
To see great Hector in the weeds of Peace, Enter Thersites.
To talk with him, and to behold his Visage,
Even to my full of view. A labour sav'd—

Ther.

A wonder!

Achil.

What?

Ther.

Ajax goes up and down the Field, asking for himself.

Achil.

How so?

Ther.

He must fight singly to Morrow with Hector, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical Cudgelling, that he raves, in saying nothing.

Achil.

How can that be?

Ther.

Why, he stalks up and down like a Peacock, a stride and a stand; ruminates like an Hostess that hath no Arithmetick, but her Brain to set down her Reckoning; bites his Lip with a politick regard, as who should say, there were Wit in his Head, and 'twou'd out; and so there is, but it lies as coldly in him as Fire in a Flint, which will not shew without knocking. The Man's undone for ever; for if Hector break not his Neck i'th' Combat, he'll break't himself in Vain-glory. He knows not me: I said, Good morrow, Ajax. And he replies, Thanks Agamemnon. What think you of this Man, that takes me for the General? He's grown a very Land-fish—languageless—a Monster; a plague of Opinion, a Man may wear it on both sides, like a Leather Jerkin.

Achil.

Thou must be my Ambassador to him, Thersites.

Ther.

Who? I?—why he'll answer no Body; he professes not answering; speaking is for Beggars; he wears his Tongue in's Arms; I will put on his presence; let Patroclus make his demands to me, you shall see the Pageant of Ajax.

Achil.

To him, Patroclus—tell him, I humbly desire the valiant Ajax, to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarm'd to my Tent, and to procure safe Conduct for his Person, of the Magnanimous and most Illustrious, six or seven

times honour'd Captain, General of the Grecian Army, Agamemnon, &c. Do this.

Patr.

Jove bless great Ajax.

Ther.

Hum—

Patr.

I come from the worthy Achilles.

Ther.

Ha!

Patr.

Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his Tent.

Ther.

Hum—

Patr.

And to procure safe Conduct from Agamemnon.

Ther.

Agamemnon!—

Patr.

Ay, my Lord.

Ther.

Ha!

Patr.

What say you to't?

Ther.

God be wi'you, with all my Heart.

Patr.

Your answer, Sir.

Ther.

If to Morrow be a fair Day, by eleven a Clock, it will go one way or other; howsoever, he shall pay for me e'er he has me.

Patr.

Your answer, Sir.

Ther.

Fare ye well with all my Heart.

Achil.

Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?

Ther.

No, but he's out a tune thus; what Musick he will be in, when Hector has knockt out his Brains, I know not. But I am sure none; unless the Fidler Apollo get his Sinews to make Catlings on.

Achil.

Come, thou shalt bear a Letter to him straight.

Ther.

Let me carry another to his Horse; for that's the more capable Creature.

Achil.
My Mind is troubled like a Fountain stirr'd,
And I my self see not the bottom of it. [Exit.

Ther.

Would the Fountain of your Mind were clear again, that I might water an Ass at it; I had rather be a Tick in a Sheep, than such a valiant Ignorance.

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