Patroclus.
Achilles.
I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to night,
Which with my scimitar I'll cool to morrow.
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.
Patr.
Here comes Thersites.
-- 464 --
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 ideot-worshippers, here's a letter for thee.
Achil.
From whence, fragment?
Ther.
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.
Pr'ythee, 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' back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw
eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full
of imposthume, sciatica's, lime-kilns i'th' palme, incurable
bone-ach, and the rivell'd fee-simple of the
tetter, take and take again such preposterous discoveries.
Patr.
Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou,
what meanest thou to curse thus?
Ther.
Do I curse thee?
Patr.
Why, no, you ruinous butt, you whorson 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 pester'd 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 battle:
-- 465 --
Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba,
1 noteA 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.
[Ex.
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 madmen.
Here's Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough,
and one hat note loves quails, but he hath not so much
brain as ear-wax; 2 note
and the goodly transformation of
Jupiter there, his brother, the bull, the primitive
statue, and obelisque memorial of cuckolds; a thrifty
shooing-horn in a chain, hanging at his brother's leg;
-- 466 --
to what form, but that he is, should wit larded with
malice, and malice forced with wit, turn him? 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
not Thersites; for I care not, to be the lowse of a
lazar, so I were not Menelaus—
Hey-day, spirits and fires!
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
