Puslapio vaizdai

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 bim. Ther. Mars his ideot! do, rudeness; do, camel, do, do.

Enter Achilles and Patroclus.

Achil. Why, how now, Ajax? wherefore do you this? How now, Therfites? 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 fo.

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 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?

[Ajax offers to strike him, Achilles interpofes. Ther. I fay, this AjaxAchil. Nay, good Ajax.

Ther. Has not fo much wit

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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 quietnefs, but the fool will not he there, that he, look you


Ajax. O thou damn'd cur, I fhall

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Achil. Will you fet your wit to a fool's?
Ther. No, I warrant you; for a fool's will shame it.
Pat. Good words, Therfites.

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 ferve thee not.

Ajax. Well, go to, go to.

Ther. I ferve here voluntary.

Achil. 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. Ev'n 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; he were as good crack a fufty nut with no kernel.

Achil. What, with me too, Therfites?

Ther. There's Ulyffes and old Neftor, (whofe 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 fhall cut out your tongue. Ther. '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, fhall I?

Achil. There's for you, Patroclus.

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

(17) There's Ulyffes, and old Neftor, whofe Wit was mouldly ere their Grandfires had Nails on their toes,] This is one of thefe Editors wife 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 Grandfon an old Man, before the Grandfather was out of his Swathing-cloaths? Prepofterous Nonfenfe! 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 Hector, 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, fuch a one that dare
Maintain I know not what: 'tis trafh, farewel.
Ajax. Farewel! who fhall anfwer him?

Achil. I know not, 'tis put to lott❜ry; otherwife
He knew his man.

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. A

Fter fo many hours, lives, fpeeches spent, Thus once again fays Neftor from the Greeks: Deliver Helen, and all damage elfe (As honour, lofs of time, travel, expence,

Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is confum'd

In hot digeftion of this cormorant war)
Shall be ftruck off. Hector, what fay you to't?

Hect. Though no man leffer fears the Greeks than I, As far as touches my particular, yet There is no lady of more fofter bowels, More fpungy to fuck in the fense of fear, More ready to cry out, who knows what follows? Than Hector is. The Wound of Peace is Surety, (18) Surety fecure; but modeft Doubt is call'd

(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 fays in his Hamlet ;

Be wary then; beft Safety lies in Fear.

Velleius Paterculus, fpeaking of Arminius's Treachery, has left us a Sentiment, that might very well have given Rife to our Author's. Haud imprudenter fpeculatus, neminem celerius opprimi, quàm qui nihil timeret ; & frequentiffimum Initium effe Calamitatis Securitatem.


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The beacon of the wife; the tent that fearches
To th' bottom of the worst. Let Helen go.
Since the first fword was drawn about this question,
Ev'ry tithe foul 'mongst many thousand difmes
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 it our name) the value of one ten;
What merit's in that reafon 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 vaft proportion of his infinite?
And buckle in a Waste moft fathomlefs,

With spans and inches fo diminutive
As fears and reafons? fie, for godly fhame!

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

Troi. You are for dreams and flumbers, brother Priest,
You fur your gloves with reafons. Here are your reafons.
You know, an enemy intends you harm;
You know, a fword imploy'd is perillous;
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 reafon: reafon and refpect
Make livers pale, and luftyhood deject.

Het. Brother, he is not worth what she doth coft
The holding.

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


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Hea. But Value dwells not in particular will;
It holds its estimate and dignity
As well wherein 'tis precious of it self,
As in the prizer: 'tis mad idolatry,
To make the fervice greater than the God;
And the Will dotes, that is inclinable
To what infectiously it felf affects,
Without fome 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 fhores
Of Will and Judgment; how may I avoid
(Although my Will diftafte what is elected)
The wife I chufe? there can be no evafion
To blench from this, and to ftand firm by honour.
We turn not back the filks upon the merchant,
When we have spoil'd them; nor th' remainder viands
We do not throw in unrefpective place,
Because we now are full. It was thought meet,
Paris fhould do fome vengeance on the Greeks:
Your breath of full confent bellied his fails;
The feas and winds (old wranglers) took a truce,
And did him fervice: he touch'd the Ports defir'd;
And for an old aunt, whom the Greeks held captive,
He brought a Grecian Queen, whofe youth and freshness
Wrinkles Apollo's, and makes ftale the morning. (19)


-whofe 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 feems the Poet's Antithefis to Freshness. So in his Winter's Tale ;

・Jo fhall I do

To th' fresheft Things now reigning, and make stale
The gliftring of this prefent.

This old Aunt, who is only hinted at by our Poet, is Hefione, the Daughter of Laomedon and Sister 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.- -Spenfer mentions her fubduing Telamon to her Charms, in his Verfion 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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