Ther. And thofe boiles did run say so -did not the General run? were not that a botchy core? Ajax. Dog! Ther. Then there would come fome matter from him: I fee none now. Ajax. Thou bitch-wolf's fon, canft thou not hear? feel then. [Strikes him. Ther. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mungrel beef-witted Lord! Ajax. Speak then, you unwinnow'dit (9) leaven, fpeak; I will beat thee into hand fomness. Ther. I fhall fooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but, I think, thy horfe will fooner con an oration, than thou learn a prayer without book: thou canst strike, canft thou? a red murrain o'thy jade's tricks! Ajax. Toads-tool, learn me the proclamation. Ther. Doeft thou think, I have no sense, thou ftrik'st me thus ? Ajax. The proclamation Ther. Thou art proclaim'd a fool, I think. Ajax. Do not, porcupine, do not; my fingers itch. Ther. I would, thou didst itch from head to foot, and I had the fcratching of thee; I would make thee the loathfom'ft fcab in Greece. Ajax. I fay, the proclamation Ther. Thou grumbleft and raileft every hour on Achilles, and thou art as full of envy at his Greatness, as Cerbereus is at Proferpina's Beauty: ay, that thou bark'stat him. Ajax. Mistress Therfites ! Ther. Thou shouldst strike him. (9) Speak then, you unfalted Leaven, Speak;] This is a reading obtruded upon us by Mr. Pope, that has no Authority or Countenance from any of the Copies; nor that approaches in any Degree to the Traces of the old Reading, you whinid ft Leaven. This, 'tis true, is corrupted and unintelligible; but the Emendation, which I have coin'd out of it, gives us a Sense apt and confonant to what Ajax would fay "Thou Lump of four Dough, kneaded up out of a Flower, unpurg'd and unfifted, with all the Drofs and Bran "in it.". Ajax. Cobloaf! Ther. He would pound thee into shivers with his fist, as a failor breaks a bisket. Ajax. You whorefon 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 my elbows: an Affinego may tutor thee. Thou fcurvy 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 him. 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 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 so. Ther. But yet you look not well upon him: for who foever you take him to be, he is Ajax. Achil. I know that, fool. Ther. Ay, but that fool knows not himself. 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 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. Achil. What? [Ajax offers to ftrike him, Achilles interpofes. Ther. 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 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. Pat. 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. Achil. Your laft fervice was fufferance, 'twas not vo→ luntary; 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 lies 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 Ulysses and old Neftor, (whose wit was mouldy ere your Grandfires had nails on their toes,) (10) yoke you like draft oxen, and make you plough up the wair. Achil. What! what! (10) There's Ulyffes, and old Neftor, whofe Wit was mouldy ere their Grandfires bad Nails on their toes,] This is one of these 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 Granifon an old Man, before the Grandfather was out of his Swathing cloaths? Prepofterous Nonfenfe! and yet fo eafy a Change, as one poor Pronoun for another fets all right and clear. P 5 Ther. 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. 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 factions of fools. Patr. A good riddance. [Exit. Achil. Marry, this, Sir, is proclaim'd through all our Holt, That Hector, by the fifth hour of the Sun, Will, with a trumpet, 'twixt our Tents and Troy, Achil. I know not, 'tis put to lott'ry, otherwise Ajax. O, meaning you: I'll go learn more of it. [Exe. SCENE changes to Priam's Palace in Troy. Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris and Helenus. Pri. Fter fo many hours, lives, fpeeches spent, Thus once again fays Neftor from the Greeks: Deliver Helen, and all damage elfe A (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 truck 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 ready to cry out, who knows what follows? Surety Surety fecure; but modeft Doubt is call'd Troi. Fy, fy, my brother: Weigh you the worth and honour of a King And buckle in a waste most fathomless, With spans and inches fo diminutive As fears and reafons? fy, for godly shame! Hel. No marvel, though you bite fo 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? Troi. You are for dreams and flumbers, brother Priest, You fur your gloves with reasons. Here are your reafons. You know, an enemy intends you harm; You know, a fword imploy'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 reason to his heels, And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, Or like a ftar diforb'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 luftyhood deject. Hect. Brother, fhe is not worth what the doth cost The holding. Troi. What is aught, but as 'tis valued ? Hect |