There they stand yet; and modeftly I think, Ulys. So to him we leave it. Most gentle, and most valiant Hector, welcome; To feast with me, and fee me at my tent. Hect. Is this Achilles? Achil. I am Achilles. Hect. Stand fair, I pr'ythee, let me look on thee. Hect. Nay, I have done already. Achil. Thou art too brief. I will the fecond time, Hect. O, like a book of sport thou'lt read me o'er: Achil. Tell me, you heav'ns, in which part of his body Shall I destroy him? whether there, or there, That I may give the local wound a name, Hect. It would difcredit the bleft gods, proud man, As to prenominate in nice conjecture, Achil. I tell thee, yea. Hect. Wert thou the oracle to tell me so, Ajax. Do not chafe thee, cousin ; And you, Achilles, let thefe threats alone Hect. I pray you, let us fee you in the field: Achil. Doft thou intreat me, Hector? To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death; To-night, all friends. Hect. Thy hand upon that match. Aga. First, all you peers of Greece go to my tent, [Exeunt. SCENE SCENE X. Manent Troilus and Ulyffes. Troi. My lord Ulyffes, tell me, I beseech you, Ulys. At Menelaus' tent, moft princely Troilus; Troi. Shall I, fweet lord, be bound to thee so much, To bring me thither? Ulys. You fhall command me, Sir: As gently tell me, of what honour was This Creffida in Troy; had the no lover there, That wails her abfence? Troi. O Sir, A mock is due. She was belov'd, to fuch as boasting fhew their scars, But still, sweet love is food for fortune's tooth. [Exeunt. ACT ACT V. SCENE I. SCENE before Achilles's tent in the Grecian Camp. I ACHILLE S. 'LL heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night, Enter Therfites. Achil. How now, thou core of envy? Thou crusty batch of nature, what's the news? Ther. Why, thou picture of what thou feem'ft, and idol of idiot-worshippers, here's a letter for thee. Achil. From whence, fragment? Ther. Why, thou full difh of fool, from Troy. Patr. Who keeps the tent now? Ther. The furgeon's box, or the patient's wound. Patr. Well faid, adversity; and what need these tricks? Ther. Pr'ythee be filent, boy, I profit not by thy talk; thou art thought to be Achilles's male-varlet. Patr. Male-varlet, you rogue? what's that? Ther. Why, his mafculine whore. Now the rotten diseases of the fouth, guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs, loads o' gravel i'th' back, lethargies, cold palfies, † raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of impoftume, fciatica's, lime-kilns i'th' palme, incurable bone-ake, and the rivell'd fee-fimple of the tetter, take and take again fuch prepofterous difcoveries. VOL VI. N What follows is added out of the first edition. Patr. Patr. Why, thou damnable box of envy thou, what mean'st thou to curse thus ? Thér. Do I curfe thee? Patr. Why no, you ruinous butt, you whoreson indistinguishable cur. Ther. No? why art thou then exafperate, thou idle immaterial skein of fley'd filk: thou green farcenet flap for a fore eye; thou taffel of a prodigal's purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pefter'd with such water-flies, diminutives of nature. Patr. Out gall! Ther. Finch egg! Achil. My Sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite A token from her daughter, my fair love, [Exit. Ther. With too much blood, and too little brain, these two may run mad: but if with too much brain, and too little blood, they do, I'll be a curer of mad-men. Here's Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails, but he hath not so much brain as ear-wax; and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there his brother, the bull, the primitive ftatue, and oblique memorial of cuckolds; a thrifty fhooing-horn in a chain, hanging at his brother's leg; to what form, but that he is, fhould wit larded with malice, and malice farced with wit turn him to? to an ass were nothing, he is both ass and ox; to an ox were nothing, he is both ox and afs; to be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, forced a |