Ther. Thou grumbleft and raileft every hour on Achilles, and thou art as full of envy at his greatnefs, as Cerberus is at Proferpina's beauty: I, that thou bark'ft at him. Ajax. Miftrels Therfites!

Ther. Thou fhouldst strike him.
Ajax. Cobloaf!

Ther. He would pound thee into shivers with his fift, as a failor breaks a bisket.

Ajax. You whorfon cur!

Ther. Do, do.

Ajax. Thou ftool for a witch!

[Beating bim,

Ther. Ay, do, thou fodden-witted Lord; thou haft no more brain than I have in my elbows: an Affinego may tutor thee. Thou scurvy valiant afs, thou art here but to thrash Trojans, and thou art bought and fold among those 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 bim.

Ther. Mars his ideot! do, rudeness, do, camel, do, do. SCENE II. Enter Achilles and Patroclus.

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

Acbil. 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 whofo

ever 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.

[Beating him. Ther. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters; his evafions 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 VOL. VIII.

P

of

of a fparrow.

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.

Acbil. What? [Ajax offers to ftrike bim,Achilles inter poses. Ther. I fay, this Ajax

Achil. Nay, good Ajax.

Ther. Has not fo much wit

Acbil. Nay, good Ajax.

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

Acbil. 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 fèt your wit to a fool's?

Ther. No, I warrant you, for a fool's will fhame it. Pat. Good words, Therfites.

Acbil. 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 imprefs.

Ther. Ev'n fo—a great deal of your wit too lyes in your finews, or else 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,) yoke you like draft oxen, and make you plough up the war. 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.

Pat. No more words, Therfites.

Ther

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

Acbil. There's for you,

Patroclus.

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

Pat. A good riddance.

[Exit.

Achil. Marry this, Sir, is proclaim'd through all our hoft, That Hector, by the fifth 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, fuch a one that dares
Maintain-I know not what; 'tis trash; farewel!
Ajax. Farewel! who fhall answer 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. [Exe.
SCENE III. Priam's Palace in Troy.

Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris and Helenus.
Pri. After fo many hours, lives, fpeeches fpent,
Thus once again fays Neftor from the Greeks:
Deliver Helen, and all damage else

(As honour, lofs of time, travel, expence,

Wounds, friends, and what elfe dear that is confum'd
In hot digeftion of this cormorant war)

Shall be ftruck off. Hector, what fay you to't?
He&t. 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 fenfe of fear,
More ready to cry out, who knows what follows ?
Than Hector is. The worm of peace is furety,
Surety fecure; but modeft doubt is call'd
The beacon of the wife; the tent that fearches
To th' bottom of the wound. Let Helen go.
Since the firft fword was drawn about this queftion,
Ev'ry 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, nor worth to us

P 2

(Had

(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 comwon ounces? will you with counters fum
The vaft proportion of his infinite?
And buckle in a waste, most fathomlefs,
With spans and inches fo diminutive

As fears and reafons? fie for godly shame!

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

Troi. You are for dreams and flumbers, brother prieft,
You fur your gloves with reafons. Here are your reasons.
You know an enemy intends you harm,
You know a fword imploy'd is perilous,
And reason 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 à ftar dis-orb'd?-Nay, if we talk of reafon,
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, the is not worth what the doth coft
The holding.

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

Hect. But Value dwells not in particular will,

It holds its eftimate and dignity,

As well wherein 'tis precious of itself,

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 itself affects,
Without fome image of th' affected's' 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 fpoil'd them; nor th' remainder viands
We do not throw in unrefpected 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.
Why keep we her? the Grecians keep our aunt:
Is the worth keeping? why, fhe is a pearl,
Whose price hath launch'd above a thousand ships,
And turn'd crown'd Kings to merchants-
If you'll avouch 'twas wisdom Paris went,
(As you must needs, for you all cry'd, go, go :)
If you'll confefs he brought home noble prize,
(As you must needs, for you all clap'd your hands
And cry'd, ineftimable ;) why d'you now
The iffue of your proper wifdoms rate,
And do a deed that fortune never did,
Beggar that estimation which you priz'd
Richer than fea and land? O theft most base!
What we have ftol'n, That we do fear to keep!
Base thieves, unworthy of a thing fo ftol'n!
What in their country did them that difgrace,
We fear to warrant in our native place.
Caf. [within.] Cry, Trojans, cry!

Pri. What noife? what fhriek is this?
Troi. 'Tis our mad fifter, I do know her voice.

P 3

Caf.