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.
-- 399 --
Ther.
But yet you look not well upon him: for
whosoever you take 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.
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 tenour of
the proclamation, and he rails upon me.
Ther.
I serve thee not.
Ajax.
Well, 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.
Ev'n so—a great deal of your wit too lies
-- 400 --
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 3 noteere your 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.
Ther.
I will see you hang'd like clotplotes, ere 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, 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'll go learn more of it.
[Exeunt.
-- 401 --
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].
