for a fools will shame it. Good words, Thersites. What's the quarrel? I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenor of the proclamation, and he rails upon me. I serve thee not. Well, go to, go to. I serve here voluntarily. Your last service was sufferance, '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 have a great catch, if he 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 hanged, 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 To-morrow 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 lottery; otherwise He knew his man. O, meaning you. I will go learn more of it. After so many hours, lives, speeches spent, Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks: 'Deliver Helen, and all damage else-- As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consumed In hot digestion of this cormorant war-- Shall be struck off.' Hector, what say you to't? Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I As far as toucheth my particular, Yet, dread Priam, There is no lady of more softer bowels, More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, More ready to cry out 'Who knows what follows?' Than Hector is: the wound of peace is surety, Surety secure; but modest doubt is call'd The beacon of the