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, if '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, language-less, 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 ere 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 will be in him, when Hector has knock'd 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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