Puslapio vaizdai

use 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 scurvy lord !
Ajax. You cur !

[Beating him. Ther, Mars his ideor! do, rudeness ; do, camel, do, do.

Enter Achilles and Patroclus. Achil. Why, how now, Ajax ? wherefore do

you this? How now, Tbersites? what's the matter, man?

Tber. 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.

Ther. But yet you look not well upon hims 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 bim, Achilles interposes. Ther. I say, this AjaxAchil. Nay, good' Ajax. Ther. Has not so much witAchil. Nay, I must hold you.

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

Acbil, Peace, fool ! Ther. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not: he there, that he, look Ajax. O thou damn'd cur, I shall


you there.


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, Tber sites.
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. Evin so a great deal of your wit too lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. Heftor 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, Therfites?

Ther. There's Ulyses and old Neftor, (whose wit was mouldy ere your Grandfires had nails on their toes,) (17) yoke you like draft oxen, and make you plough up the wair.

Achil. What! what!
Ther. Yes, good footh ; to, Achilles ! to, Ajax! to
Ajax. I shall cut out your tongue.

Tber. 'Tis no matter, I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.

Pat. No more words, Therfites.

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 clotpoles, ere I come any more to your Tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.


(17) There's Ulysses, and old Neftor, whose Wit was mouldly ere their Grandfires bad Nails on their toes,] This is one of these Editors wise Riddles. This is no Folly of Therfites's venting. What! Was Neftor's Wit mouldy, before his Grandfire's Toes had any Nails ? that is, was the Grandson an old Man, before the Grandfather was out of his Swathing-cloaths ? Preposterous Nonsense ! and yet so easy a Change, as one poor Derivative Pronoun for another, fets all right and clear.


Pat. A good riddance.
Achil. Marry, this, Sir, is proclaim'd through all our

That Heator, by the fifth hour of the Sun,
Will with a trumpet, 'twixt our Tents and Troy,
To morrow morning call fome 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 inan.
Ajax. O, meaning you : I'll go learn more of it.


SCENE changes to Priam's Palace in Troy:

Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris and Helenus. Pri. Fter so many hours, lives, speeches spent,

Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks: Deliver Helen, and all damage else (As honour, loss of time, travel, expence, Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum'd In hot digestion of this cormorant war) Shall be struck off. Hector, what say you to't?

Hect. Though no man lesfer fears the Greeks than I, As far as touches my particular, yet There is no lady of more softer bowels, More spungy to suck in the sense of fear, More ready to cry out, who knows what follows ? Than Hector is. The Wound of Peace is Surety, (18) Surety secure ; but modest Doubt is callid


(18) The Wound of Peace is furety ;] i.e. the great Danger of Peace is too much Security, the Opinion of our being least in Danger. Therefore, as our Author says in his Hamlet ;


wary best Safety lies in Fear. Velleius Paterculus, speaking of Arminius's Treachery, has left us a Sentiment, that might very well have given Rise to our Author's. Haud imprudenter fpeculatus, neminem celeriùs opprimi, quàm qui nihil timeret ; & frequentissimum Initium effe Calamitatis Securitatem.

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The beacon of the wise; the tent that searches
To th' bottom of the worst. Let Helen go.
Since the first sword was drawn about this question,
Ev'ry tithe soul ʼmongst many thousand dismes
Hath been as dear as Helen. I mean, of ours,
If we have lost so many tenths of ours
To guard a thing not ours, not worth to us
(Had it our name) the value of one ten;
What merit's in that reason which denies
The yielding of her up?

Troi. 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 vast proportion of his infinite ?
And buckle in a Waste most fathomless,
With spans and inches so diminutive
As fears and reasons ? fie, for godly shame!

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

Troi. You are for dreams and numbers, brother Priest,
You fur your gloves with reasons. Here are your reasons,
You know, an enemy intends you harm ;
You know, a sword imploy'd is perillous ;
And reason fies the object of all harm.
Who marvels then, when Helenus beholds
A Grecian and his sword, if he do fet
The very wings of reason to his heels,
And Ay like chidden Mercury from Jove,
Or like a ftar dif-orb’d!--Nay, if we talk of reason,
Let's fhut our gates, and neep: manhood and honour
Şhould have hare-hearts, would they but fat their thoughts
With this cramm'd reason: reason and respect
Make livers pale, and lustyhood deject.

Heil. Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost
The holding

Troi. What is aught, but as 'cis valu’d?


Hea. But Value dwells not in particular will;
It holds its estimate and dignity
As well wherein 'tis precious of it felf,
As in the prizer: 'tis mad idolatry,
To make the service greater than the God;
And the Will dotes, that is inclinable
To what infectiously it self affects,
Without some image of th' affected merit.
Troi. I take to day a wife, and my

election -
Is led on in the conduct of my Will;
My Will enkindled by mine eyes and ears,
Two traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores
Of Will and Judgment ; how may I avoid
(Although my Will distaste what is elected)
The wife I chuse? there can be no evasion
To blench from this, and to stand firm by honour.
We turn not back the silks upon the merchant,
When we have spoil'd them ; nor th’remainder viands
We do not throw in unrespective place,
Because we now are full. It was thought meet,
Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks :
Your breath of full consent bellied his fails;
The seas and winds (old wranglers) took a truce,
And did him service: he touch'd the Ports desir'd;
And for an old aunt, whom the Greeks held captive,
He brought a Grecian Queen, whose youth and freshness
Wrinkles Apollo's, and makes ftale the morning. (19)

whose Youth and Freshness
Wrinkles Apollo's, and make pale the morning.) This is only Mr. Pope's
Reading ; all the other Editions have, ftale; which seems the Poet's
Antithesis to Freshness. So in his Winter's Tale ;

To fall I do
To tb' freshest Things now reigning, and make ftale

The gliftring of this present. This old Aunt, who is only hinted at by our Poet, is Hefione, the Daughter of Laomedon and Silter of Priam. She was borne away Captive to Greece by Hercules, when he fack'd Troy; and was given to Telamon's Bed, by whom the bore Teucer. --Spenser mentions her subduing Telamon to her Charms, in his Version of VIR GIL's Gnat.

For th' one was ravish'd of his own Bond-maid,

The fair Ixionè, captiv'd from Troy. For here we muft read, Hefione. The Particulars of her Story are to be found in Hyginus's 89th Fable.

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