Well, welcome, welcome! I have feen the time-
Ulf. I wonder now how yonder city stands,
When we have here her base and pillar by us.
Hect. I know your favour, lord Ulyffes, well.
Ah, fir, there's many a Greek and Trojan dead,
Since first I faw yourself and Diomed
In Ilion, on your Greekish embaffy.

Uly. Sir, I foretold you then what would enfue: My prophecy is but half his journey yet;

For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whofe wanton tops do bufs the clouds, Muft kifs their own feet.

Hect. I must not believe you :

There they ftand yet; and modeftly I think,
The fall of every Phrygian stone will coft
A drop of Grecian blood: The end crowns all;
And that old common arbitrator, Time,
Will one day end it.

Ul. So to him we leave it.

Moft gentle, and most valiant Hector, welcome: After the general, I beseech you next

To feaft with me, and fee me at my tent.

Achil. I fhall forestall thee, lord Ulyffes, thou!Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee; I have with exact view perus'd thee, Hector,

And quoted joint by joint.

Hect. Is this Achilles?

Achil. I am Achilles.

Hect. Stand fair, I pray thee: let me look on thee. Achil. Behold thy fill.

Hect. Nay, I have done already.

Achil. Thou art too brief; I will the fecond time, As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb. Hect. O, like a book of sport thou'lt read me o'er;

But

But there's more in me than thou understand'ft.
Why doft thou so opprefs me with thine eye?
Achil. Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his
body

Shall I destroy him? whether there, there, or there?
That I may give the local wound a name;
And make distinct the very breach, whereout
Hector's great fpirit flew : Answer me heavens !
Heft. It would difcredit the bleft gods, proud man!
To answer fuch a queftion: Stand again:
Think' thou to catch my life fo pleafantly,
As to prenominate in nice conjecture,
Where thou wilt hit me dead?

Achil. I tell thee, yea.

Hect. Wert thou an oracle to tell me fo, I'd not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well; For I'll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there; But, by the forge that ftithy'd Mars his helm, I'll kill thee every where, yea, o'er and o'er.You wifeft Grecians, pardon me this brag, His infolence draws folly from my lips; But I'll endeavour deeds to match thefe words, Or may I never

Ajax. Do not chafe thee, cousin ;

And you, Achilles, let thefe threats alone,
"Till accident, or purpofe, bring you to't:
You may have every day enough of Hector,
If you have ftomach; the general state, I fear,
Can fcarce entreat you to be odd with him.

Hect. I pray you, let us fee you in the field; We have had pelting wars, fince you refus'd The Grecians' caufe.

Achil. Doft thou entreat me, Hector?

To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death;
To-night, all friends.

Hect. Thy hand upon that match.

Aga. Firft, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent; There in the full convive we: afterwards, As Hector's leisure and your bounties shall Concur together, feverally entreat him.Beat loud the tabourines, let the trumpets blow, That this great foldier may his welcome know.

Manent TROILUS, and ULYSSES.

[Exeunt.

Troi. My lord Ulyffes, tell me, I beseech you, In what place of the field doth Calchas keep? Uly. At Menelaus' tent, moft princely Troilus: There Diomed doth feast with him to-night; Who neither looks on heaven, nor on the earth, But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view

On the fair Creffid.

Troi. Shall I, fweet lord, be bound to you so much, After we part from Agamemnon's tent, To bring me thither?

Uly. You fhall command me, fir.

As gentle tell me, of what honour was

This Creffida in Troy? Had fhe no lover there, That wails her abfence?

Troi. O, fir, to fuch as boafting fhew their fears, A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord? She was belov'd, she lov'd; she is, and doth: . But, ftill, fweet love is food for fortune's tooth. [Exeunt.

ACT

ACT V.

SCENE I. ACHILLES' Tent.

Enter ACHILLES, and PATROCLUS.

Achilles.

I'LL heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night,
Which with my fcimitar I'll cool to-morrow.
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.
Patr. Here comes Therfites.

Enter THER SITES.

Achil. How now, thou core of envy? Thou crufty batch of nature, what's the news? Ther. Why, thou picture of what thou feemeft, and idol of ideot-worshippers, here's a letter for thee.

Achil. From whence, fragment?

Ther. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy. Patr. Who keeps the tent now?

Ther. The furgeon's box, or the patient's wound. Patr. Well faid, adverfity! and what need thefe tricks?

Ther. Pr'ythee, be filent, boy; I profit not by thy talk: thou art thought to be Achilles' male varlet.

Patr. Male varlet, you rogue! what's that?

Ther. Why, his masculine whore. Now the rotten defeases of the fouth, the guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs, loads o' gravel i' the back, lethargies, cold palfies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing I

lungs,

lungs, bladders full of impofthume, sciaticas, limekilns i'the palm, incurable bone-ach, and the rivell'd fee-fimple of the tetter, take and take again fuch prepofterous discoveries!

Patr. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meaneft thou to curfe thus?

Ther. Do I curfe thee?

Patr. Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whorefon indiftinguishable cur, no.

Ther. No? why art thou then exafperate, thou idle immaterial fkein of fleeve filk, thou green farcenet flap for a fore eye, thou taffel of a prodigal's purfe, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pefter'd with fuch water-flies; diminutives of nature !

Patr. Out, gall!

Ther. Finch egg!

Achik. My fweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite From my great purpose in to-morrow's battle. Here is a letter from queen Hecuba;

A token from her daughter, my fair love;
Both taxing me, and gaging me to keep

An oath that I have fworn. I will not break it:
Fall, Greeks; fail, fame; honour, or go, or stay;
My major vow lies here, this I'll obey.-
Come, come, Therfites, help to trim my tent;
This night in banquetting must all be spent.—
Away Patroclus.
[Exeunt

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 madmen. Here's Agamemnon,-an honeft fellow enough, and one that loves quails; but he hath not fo much brain as ear-wax: And the good

ly