arm, or win my sleeve. Do you hear, my lord? do you hear? What now? Here's a letter come from yond poor girl. Let me read. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl; and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you one o' these days: and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that, unless a man were cursed, I cannot tell what to think on't. What says she there? Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart: The effect doth operate another way. Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together. My love with words and errors still she feeds; But edifies another with her deeds. Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I'll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlets Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting foolish young knave's sleeve of Troy there in his helm: I would fain see them meet; that that same young Trojan ass, that loves the whore there, might send that Greekish whore-masterly villain, with the sleeve, back to the dissembling luxurious drab, of a sleeveless errand. O' the t'other side, the policy of those crafty swearing rascals, that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses, is not proved worthy a blackberry: they set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles: and now is the cur Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm to-day; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion. Soft! here comes sleeve, and t'other. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx, I would swim after. Thou dost miscall retire: I do not fly, but advantageous care Withdrew me from the odds of multitude: Have at thee! Hold thy whore, Grecian!--now for thy whore, Trojan!--now the sleeve, now the sleeve! What art thou, Greek? art thou for Hector's match? Art thou of blood and honour? No, no, I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave: a very filthy rogue. I do believe thee: live. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy neck for frightening me! What's become of the wenching rogues? I think they have swallowed one another: I would laugh at that miracle: yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I'll seek them. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse; Present the fair steed to my