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