_Agam_. Where is Achilles?
_Patr_. Within his tent; but ill-dispos’d, my lord.
_Agam_. Let it be known to him that we are here.
He shent our messengers; and we lay by
Our appertainings, visiting of him.
Let him be told so; lest, perchance, he think
We dare not move the question of our place
Or know not what we are.
_Patr_. I shall say so to him.
Exit
_Vlyſ_. We saw him at the opening of his tent.
He is not sick.
_Aiax_. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart. You may call it
melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my head, ’tis
pride. But why, why? Let him show us a cause. A word, my lord.
[Takes Agamemnon aside]
_Nestor_. What moves Aiax thus to bay at him?
_Vlyſ_. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.
_Nestor_. Who, Thersites?
_Vlyſ_. He.
_Nestor_. Then will Aiax lack matter, if he have lost his argument
_Vlyſ_. No; you see he is his argument that has his argument- Achilles.
_Nestor_. All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their
faction. But it was a strong composure a fool could disunite!
_Vlyſ_. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.