prenominate in nice conjecture Where thou wilt hit me dead? I tell thee, yea. Wert thou an oracle to tell me so, 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 stithied Mars his helm, I'll kill thee every where, yea, o'er and o'er. You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag; His insolence draws folly from my lips; But I'll endeavour deeds to match these words, Or may I never-- Do not chafe thee, cousin: And you, Achilles, let these threats alone, Till accident or purpose bring you to't: You may have every day enough of Hector If you have stomach; the general state, I fear, Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him. I pray you, let us see you in the field: We have had pelting wars, since you refused The Grecians' cause. Dost thou entreat me, Hector? To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death; To-night all friends. Thy hand upon that match. First, 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, severally entreat him. Beat loud the tabourines, let the trumpets blow, That this great soldier may his welcome know. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you, In what place of the field doth Calchas keep? At Menelaus' tent, most princely Troilus: There Diomed doth feast with him to-night; Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth, But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view On the fair Cressid. Shall sweet lord, be bound to you so much, After we part from Agamemnon's tent, To bring me thither? You shall command me, sir. As gentle tell me, of what honour was This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there That wails her absence? O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord? She was beloved, she loved; she is, and doth: But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth. I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night, Which with my scimitar I'll cool to-morrow. Patroclus, let us feast him to the height. Here comes Thersites. How now, thou core of envy! Thou crusty batch of nature, what's the news? Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot worshippers, here's a letter for thee. From whence, fragment? Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy. Who keeps the tent now