man than I am? No question. Will you subscribe his thought, and say he is? No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable. Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not what pride is. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise. I do hate a proud man, as I hate the engendering of toads. Yet he loves himself: is't not strange? Achilles will not to the field to-morrow. What's his excuse? He doth rely on none, But carries on the stream of his dispose Without observance or respect of any, In will peculiar and in self-admission. Why will he not upon our fair request Untent his person and share the air with us? Things small as nothing, for request's sake only, He makes important: possess'd he is with greatness, And speaks not to himself but with a pride That quarrels at self-breath: imagined worth Holds in his blood such swoln 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 so plaguy proud that the death-tokens of it Cry 'No recovery.' Let Ajax go to him. Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent: 'Tis said he holds you well, and will be led At your request a little from himself. O Agamemnon, let it not be so! We'll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes When they go from Achilles: shall the proud lord That bastes his arrogance with his own seam And never suffers matter of the world Enter his thoughts, save such as do revolve And ruminate himself, shall he be worshipp'd Of that we hold an idol more than he? No, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord Must not so stale his palm, nobly acquired; Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit, As amply titled as Achilles is, By going to Achilles: That were to enlard his fat already pride And add more coals to Cancer when he burns With entertaining great Hyperion. This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid, And say in thunder 'Achilles go to him.' O, this is well; he rubs the vein of him. And how his silence drinks up this applause! If I go to him, with my armed fist