I had the scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in the incurfions, thou ftrikeft as flow as another.

Ajax. I say, the proclamation,

Ther. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and thou art as full of envy at his greatness, as Cerberus is at Proferpina's beauty, ay, that thou bark'st at him. Ajax. Miftrefs Therfites!

Ther. Thou should'st strike him.

Ajax. Cobloaf!

Ther. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a failor breaks a bifcuit.

Ajax. You whore fon cur!

Ther. Do, do.

Ajax. Thou ftool for a witch!

[Beating him.

Ther. Ay, do, do; thou fodden-witted lord! thou haft no more brain than I have in mine elbows; an affinego may tutor thee: Thou fcurvy valiant afs! thou art here put to thrash Trojans; and thou art bought and fold among thofe of any wit, like a Barbarian flave. If thou ufe to beat me, I will begin at thy heel, and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou!

Ajax. You dog!

Ther. You fcurvy lord!

Ajax. You cur!

[Beating him.

Ther: Mars his idiot! do, rudenefs; do, camel; do, do.

Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS.

Achil. Why, how now, Ajax? wherefore do you thus ? How now, Therfites? what's the matter, man?

Ther. You fee 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 fo.

Ther. But yet you look not well upon him: for, whofoever 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 fparrows 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 fay of him.

Achil. What?

Ther. I fay, this Ajax--
Achil. Nay, good Ajax.

[AJAX offers to strike him, ACHILLES interpofes.

Ther. Has not fo much wit

Achil. Nay, I must hold you.

Ther. As will ftop the eye of Helen's needle, for whom he comes to fight.

Achil. Peace, fool!

Ther. I would have peace and quietnefs, but the fool

will not: he there; that he; look you there.

Ajax. O thou damn'd cur! I fhall

Achil. Will you fet your wit to a fool's?

Ther. No, I warrant you; for a fool's will fhame it.

Patr. Good words, Therfites.

Achil. What's the quarrel?

Ajax. I bade the vile owl, go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he rails upon me.

Ther. I ferve thee not.

Ajax. Well, go to, go to.

Ther. I ferve here voluntary.

Acbil. Your laft fervice was fufferance, 'twas not voluntary; no man is beaten voluntary: Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress.

Ther. Even fo?- -a great deal of your wit too lies in your finews, or elfe there be liars. Hector fhall have a great catch, if he knock out either of your brains; 'a were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel.

Achil. What, with me too, Therfites?

Ther. There's Ulyffes, and old Neftor,-whose wit was mouldy ere your grandfires had nails on their toes,-yoke you like draught oxen, and make you plough up the wars. Achil. What, what?

Ther. Yes, good footh; To, Achilles! to, Ajax! to! Ajax. I fhall cut out your tongue..

Ther. 'Tis no matter; I fhall speak as much as thou, afterwards.

Patr. No more words, Therfites; peace.

Ther. I will hold my peace when Achilles' brach bids fhall I?

me,

Ther. I will fee you hang'd, like clotpoles, ere I come any more to your tents; I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.

Patr. A good riddance.

[Exit.

Achil. Marry, this, fir, is proclaim'd through all our

hoft:

That Hector, by the first hour of the fun,

Will, with a trumpet, 'twixt our tents and Troy,
To-morrow morning call fome knight to arms,
"That hath a ftomach; and fuch a one, that dare
Maintain-I know not what; 'tis trash: Farewell.

Ajax. Farewell. Who shall answer him?

Achil. I know not, it is put to lottery; otherwise, He knew his man.

Ajax. O, meaning you:-I'll go learn more of it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Troy. A Room in Priam's Palace.

Enter PRIAM, HECTOR, TROILUS, PARIS, and

HELENUS.

Pri. After fo many hours, lives, fpeeches spent,
Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks;
Deliver Helen, and all damage elfe-

As bonour, lofs of time, travel, expence,
Wounds, friends, and what clfe dear that is confum'd
In bot digeftion of this cormorant war,—

Shall be ftruck off :-Hector, what say you to't?

He&t. Though no man leffer fears the Greeks than I, As far as toucheth my particular, yet,

Dread Priam,

There is no lady of more fofter bowels,

More fpungy to fuck in the sense of fear,

More ready to cry out-Who knows what follows?
Than Hector is: The wound of peace is furety,
Surety fecure; but modest doubt is call'd
The beacon of the wife, the tent that searches
To the bottom of the worst. Let Helen go:
Since the first sword was drawn about this question,
Every tithe foul, 'mongst many thousand dismes,
Hath been as dear as Helen; I mean, of ours:
If we have loft fo many tenths of ours,
To guard a thing not ours; not worth to us,

Had

Had it our name, the value of one ten;
What merit's in that reafon, which denies
The yielding of her up?

Tro.

Fie, fie, my brother!

Weigh you the worth and honour of a king,
So great as our dread father, in a scale

Of common ounces? will you with counters fum
The paft-proportion of his infinite ?

And buckle in a waist most fathomlefs,

With spans and inches fo diminutive

As fears and reafons? fie, for godly fhame!

Hel. No marvel, though you bite so sharp at reasons, You are fo empty of them. Should not our father Bear the great fway of his affairs with reasons, Because your speech hath none, that tells him fo?

Tro. You are for dreams and flumbers, brother priest,
You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your reasons :
You know, an enemy intends you harm;
You know, a fword employ'd is perilous,
And reafon flies the object of all harm:
Who marvels then, when Helenus beholds
A Grecian and his fword, if he do fet
The very wings of reafon to his heels;
And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove,

Or like a ftar dif-orb'd?-Nay, if we talk of reason,
Let's fhut our gates, and fleep: Manhood and honour
Should have hare hearts, would they but fat their thoughts

With this cramm'd reason: reason and respect

Make livers pale, and luftihood deject.

Hect. Brother, fhe is not worth what the doth coft The holding.

Tro.

What is aught, but as 'tis valued ? Hect. But value dwells not in particular will; It holds his estimate and dignity

As