A labour sav’d!
_Ther_. A wonder!
_Achil_. What?
_Ther_. Aiax 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, ’a stalks up and down like a peacock-a stride and a stand;
ruminaies like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set
down her reckoning, bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should
say ‘There were wit in this head, an ’twould out’; and so there is; but
it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show
without knocking. The man’s undone for ever; for if Hector break not
his neck i’ th’ combat, he’ll break’t himself in vainglory. He knows
not me. I said ‘Good morrow, Aiax’; 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 leather jerkin.
_Achil_. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.
_Ther_. Who, I? Why, he’ll answer nobody; 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 Aiax.
_Achil_. To him, Patroclus. Tell him I humbly desire the valiant Aiax
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, et cetera, Agamemnon. Do this.
_Patr_. Jove bless great Aiax!
_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 you say to’t?
_Ther_. God buy you, with all my heart.
_Patr_. Your answer, sir.
_Ther_. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven of the 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 music will be in him when
Hector has knock’d out his brains I know not; but, I am sure, none;
unless the fiddler 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 myself see not the bottom of it.
Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus
_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. Exit
Enter, at one side, Æneas, and servant with a torch; at another, Paris,
Diephœbus, Antenor, Diomedes the Grecian, and others, with torches
_Par_. See, ho! Who is that there?
_Dieph_. It is the Lord Æneas.
_Æne_. Is the Prince there in person?
Had I so good occasion to lie long
As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business
Should rob my bed-mate of my company.
_Diom_. That’s my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Æneas.
_Par_. A valiant Greek, Æneas -take his hand:
Witness the process of your speech, wherein
You told how Diomed, a whole week by days,
Did haunt you in the field.
_Æne_. Health to you, valiant sir,
During all question of the gentle truce;
But when I meet you arm’d, as black defiance
As heart can think or courage execute.
_Diom_. The one and other Diomed embraces.
Our bloods are now in calm; and so long health!
But when contention and occasion meet,
By Jove, I’ll play the hunter for thy life
With all my force, pursuit, and policy.
_Æne_. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly
With his face backward. In humane gentleness,
Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises’ life,
Welcome indeed! By Venus’ hand I swear
No man alive can love in such a sort
The thing he means to kill, more excellently.
_Diom_. We sympathise. Jove let Æneas live,
If to my sword his fate be not the glory,
A thousand complete courses of the sun!
But in mine emulous honour let him die
With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow!
_Æne_. We know each other well.
_Diom_. We do; and long to know each other worse.
_Par_. This is the most despiteful’st gentle greeting
The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of.
What business, lord, so early?
_Æne_. I was sent for to the King; but why, I know not.
_Par_. His purpose meets you: ’twas to bring this Greek
To Calchas’ house, and there to render him,
For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Creſſid.
Let’s have your company; or, if you please,
Haste there before us. I constantly believe-
Or rather call my thought a certain knowledge-
My brother Troylus lodges there to-night.
Rouse him and give him note of our approach,
With the whole quality wherefore; I fear
We shall be much unwelcome.
_Æne_. That I assure you:
Troylus had rather Troy were borne to Greece
Than Creſſid borne from Troy.
_Par_. There is no help;
The bitter disposition of the time
Will have it so. On, lord; we’ll follow you.
_Æne_. Good morrow, all. Exit with servant
_Par_. And tell me, noble Diomed-faith, tell me true,
Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship-
Who in your thoughts deserves fair Helen best,
Myself or Menelaus?
_Diom_. Both alike:
He merits well to have her that doth seek her,
Not making any scruple of her soilure,
With such a hell of pain and world of charge;
And you as well to keep her that defend her,
Not palating the taste of her dishonour,
With such a costly loss of wealth and friends.
He like a puling cuckold would drink up
The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece;
You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins
Are pleas’d to breed out your inheritors.
Both merits pois’d, each weighs nor less nor more;
But he as he, the heavier for a whore.
_Par_. You are too bitter to your country-woman.
_Diom_. She’s bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris:
For every false drop in her bawdy veins
A Grecian’s life hath sunk; for every scruple
Of her contaminated carrion weight
A Troian hath been slain; since she could speak,
She hath not given so many good words breath
As for her Greeks and Troians suff’red death.
_Par_. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,
Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy;
But we in silence hold this virtue well:
We’ll not commend what we intend to sell.
Here lies our way.
Exeunt