Thersites!

Agamemnon—how if he had boils, full, all over, generally?

Thersites!

And those boils did run—say so. Did not the general run then? Were not

that a botchy core?

Dog!

Then there would come some matter from him;

I see none now.

Thou bitch-wolf’s son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then.

The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted lord!

Speak, then, thou unsalted leaven, speak. I will beat thee into

handsomeness.

I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I think thy horse

will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou

canst strike, canst thou? A red murrain o’ thy jade’s tricks!

Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.

Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus?

The proclamation!

Thou art proclaim’d fool, I think.

Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers itch.

I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the scratching of

thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art

forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another.

I say, the proclamation.

Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and thou art as full

of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty—ay, that

thou bark’st at him.

Mistress Thersites!

Thou shouldst strike him.

Cobloaf!

He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor breaks a

biscuit.

You whoreson cur!

Do, do.

Thou stool for a witch!

Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I

have in mine elbows; an asinico may tutor thee. You scurvy valiant ass!

Thou art here but to thrash Trojans, and thou art bought and sold among

those of any wit like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will

begin at thy heel and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no

bowels, thou!

You dog!

You scurvy lord!

You cur!

Mars his idiot! Do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.

Why, how now, Ajax! Wherefore do ye thus?

How now, Thersites! What’s the matter, man?

You see him there, do you?

Ay; what’s the matter?

Nay, look upon him.

So I do. What’s the matter?

Nay, but regard him well.

Well! why, so I do.

But yet you look not well upon him; for whosomever you take him to be,

he is Ajax.

I know that, fool.

Ay, but that fool knows not himself.

Therefore I beat thee.

Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! His evasions have ears

thus long. I have bobb’d his brain more than he has beat my bones. I

will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the

ninth part of a sparrow. This lord, Achilles—Ajax, who wears his wit in

his belly and his guts in his head—I’ll tell you what I say of him.

What?

I say this Ajax—

Nay, good Ajax.

Has not so much wit—

Nay, I must hold you.

As will stop the eye of Helen’s needle, for whom he comes to fight.

Peace, fool.

I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not— he there; that

he; look you there.

O thou damned cur! I shall—

Will you set your wit to a fool’s?

No, I warrant you, the fool’s will shame it.

Good words, Thersites.

What’s the quarrel?

I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he

rails upon me.

I serve thee not.

Well, go to, go to.

I serve here voluntary.

Your last service was suff’rance; ’twas not voluntary. No man is beaten

voluntary. Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress.

E’en so; a great deal of your wit too lies in your sinews, or else

there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch and knock out either of

your brains: a’ were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel.

What, with me too, Thersites?

There’s Ulysses and old Nestor—whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires

had nails on their toes—yoke you like draught oxen, and make you plough

up the wars.

What, what?

Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, to—

I shall cut out your tongue.

’Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.

No more words, Thersites; peace!

I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brach bids me, shall I?

There’s for you, Patroclus.

I will see you hang’d like clotpoles ere I come any more to your tents.

I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of

fools.

A good riddance.

Marry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through all our host,

That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,

Will with a trumpet ’twixt our tents and Troy,

Tomorrow morning, call some knight to arms

That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare

Maintain I know not what; ’tis trash. Farewell.

Farewell. Who shall answer him?

I know not; ’tis put to lott’ry, otherwise,

He knew his man.

O, meaning you? I will go learn more of it.