thinks, is the curfe dependant on those that war for a placket. I have faid my prayers, and devil Envy say Amen. What ho! my Lord Achilles!

Enter Patroclus.

Patr. Who's there? Therfites? Good Therfites, come in and rail.

Ther. If I could have remember'd a gilt counter, thou couldft not have flipp'd out of my contemplation; but it is no matter, thyfelf upon thyfelf! The common curfe of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great reve nue! heaven blefs thee from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy direction 'till thy death, then if fhe, that lays thee out, fays thou art a fair coarse, I'll be fworn and fworn upon't, fhe never fhrowded any but Lazars; Amen. Where's Achilles?

Pair. What, art thou devout? waft thou in prayer? Ther. Ay, the heav'ns hear me!

Enter Achilles.

Achil. Who's there?

Patr. Therfites, my Lord.

Achil. Where, where? art thou come? why, my cheefe, my digeftion why haft thou not ferved thyfelf up to my table, fo many meals? come, what's Agamemnon!

Ther. Thy commander, Achilles; then tell me, Patroclus, what's Achilles ?

Patr. Thy Lord, Therfites: then tell me, I pray thee, what's thyfelf?

Ther. Thy knower, Patroclus: then tell me, Patreclus, what art thou?

Patr. Thou may'ft tell, that know'ft.

Achil. O tell, tell,

Ther. I'll decline the whole queftion. Agamemnon commands Achilles, Achilles is my Lord, I am Patroclus's knower, and Patroclus is a fool.

Patr. You rafcal

Ther. Peace, fool, I have not done.

Achil. He is a privileg'd man. Proceed, Therfites.

Ther.

Ther. Agamemnon is a fool, Achilles is a fool, Therfites is a fool, and, as aforefaid, Patroclus is a fool.

Achil. Derive this; come.

Ther. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles, Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon, Therfites is a fool to ferve fuch a fool, and Patroclus is a fool pofitive.

Patr. Why am I a fool?

Ther. Make that demand to thy creator; - it fuffices me, thou art.

Enter Agamemnon, Ulyffes, Neftor, Diomedes, Ajax, and Calchas.

Look you, who comes here?

Achil. Patroclus, I'll fpeak with no body: come in with me, Therfites.

[Exit

Ther. Here is fuch patchery, fuch juggling, and such knavery: all the argument is a cuckold and a whore, a good quarrel to draw emulous factions, and bleed to death upon: now the dry Serpigo on the fubject, and war and lechery confound all! [Exit.

Aga. Where is Achilles?

Patr. Within his tent, but ill difpos'd, my Lord.
Aga. Let it be known to him that we are here.
He fhent our meffengers, and we lay by (12)
Our appertainments, vifiting of him:

Let him be told fo, left, perchance, he think
We dare not move the question of our place;
Or know not what we are.

Patr. I fhall fo say to him.

Ulyf. We faw him at the op'ning of his tent, He is not fick.

[Exit.

Ajax. Yes, lion-fick, fick of a proud heart: you may call it melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by

(12) He fent our Meffingers;] Who fent, in the Name of Accuracy? What! did Achilles fend the Meflengers, who were fent by Agamemnon? I make no doubt, but the Poet wrote;

He fhent our Messengers;

i. e. rebuked, ill-treated, rated out of his Prefence.

my

my head, 'tis pride; but why, why?-let him fhew us the cause. A word, my Lord. [To Agamemnon. Neft What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?

Ulyf. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.
Neft. Who, Therfites?

Ulys. He.

Neft. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument.

Uly. No, you fee, he is his argument, that has his argument, Achilles.

Neft. All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their faction; but it was a strong counsel, that a fool could difunite.

Uly. The amity, that wisdom knits not, folly may eafily untye.

Enter Patroclus.

Here comes Patroclus.

Neft. No Achilles with him?

Uly. The elephant hath joints, but none for courtefy; His legs are for neceffity, not flexure.

Patr. Achilles bids me fay, he is much forry,
If any thing more than your sport and pleasure
Did move your greatnefs, and this noble state,
To call on him; he hopes, it is no other,
But for your health and your digeftion-fake;
An after-dinner's breath.

Aga. Hear you, Patroclus;

We are too well acquainted with these answers:
But his evafion, wing'd thus fwift with scorn,
Cannot outfly our apprehenfions.

Much attribute he hath, and much the reason
Why we afcribe it to him; yet all his virtues
(Not virtuously on his own part beheld)
Do in our eyes begin to lofe their glofs;
And, like fair fruit in an unwholfome dish,
Are like to rot untafted. Go and tell him,

We come to speak with him; and you fhall not fin,
If you do fay, we think him over-proud,

In felf-affumption greater than in note

Of

Of judgment: fay, men worthier than himself
Here tend the favage ftrangeness he puts on,
Disguise the holy ftrength of their command,
And under-go in an obferving kind

His humourous predominance; yea, watch
His courfe and times, his ebbs and flows; as if
The paffage and whole carriage of this action
Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add,
That if he over-hold his price fo much,
We'll none of him; but let him, like an engine
Not portable, lie under this report,

"Bring action hither, this can't go to war:
"A ftirring dwarf we do allowance give,
"Before a fleeping gyant;" tell him so.

Patr. I fhall, and bring his answer prefently. [Exit..
Aga. In fecond voice we'll not be fatisfied,

We come to speak with him. Ulyffes, enter.

Ajax. What is he more than another?

[Exit Ulyffes.

Aga. No more than what he thinks he is.

Ajax. Is he fo much? do you not think, he thinks himself a better man than I am?

Aga. No queftion.

Ajax. Will you fubfcribe his thought, and fay, he is? Aga. No, noble Ajax, you are as ftrong, as valiant, as wife, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable.

Ajax. Why fhould a man be proud? how doth pride grow? I know not what it is.

Aga. Your mind is clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer; he, that is proud, eats up himself. Pride is his own glafs, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.

Re-enter Ulyffes.

Ajax. I do hate a proud man, as I hate the engendring of toads.

Neft. Yet he loves himself: is't not strange?
Ulyf. Achilles will not to the field to-morrow.

Aga.

Aga. What's his excufe?

Uly. He doth rely on none;

But carries on the ftream of his dispose,
Without obfervance or respect of any,
In will peculiar, and in felf-admiffion.

Aga. Why will he not, upon our fair request,
Un-tent his perfon, and fhare the air with us?

Uly Things fmall as nothing, for requeft's fake only,
He makes important: he's poffeft with greatness,
And speaks not to himfelf, but with a pride
That quarrels at felf-breath. Imagin'd worth
Holds in his blood fuch fwoln and hot discourse,
That, 'twixt his mental and his active parts,
Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages,

And batters down himself; what should I say?
He is fo plaguy proud, that the death-tokens of it
Cry, no recovery.

Aga. Let Ajax go to him.

Dear Lord, go you and greet him in his tent;
"Tis faid, he holds you well, and will be led
At your requeft a little from himself.

Ulyf. O, Agamemnon, let it not be fo.

We'll confecrate the steps that Ajax makes,

When they go from Achilles. Shall the proud Lord,
That baftes his arrogance with his own feam,

And never fuffers matters of the world
Enter his thoughts, (fave fuch as do revolve
And ruminate himself,) fhall he be worship'd
Of that, we hold an idol more than he?
No, this thrice-worthy and right-valiant Lord
Muft not fo ftale his palm, nobly acquir'd;
Nor, by my will, affubjugate his merit,

(As amply titled, as Achilles is,) by going to Achilles: That were t'inlard his pride, already fat,

And add more coals to Cancer, when he burns

With entertaining great Hyperion.

This Lord go to him? Jupiter forbid,

And fay in thunder, Achilles, go to him!

Neft. O, this is well, he rubs the vein of him.

Dio. And how his filence drinks up this applaufe!