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Achil. What? [Ajax offers to ftrike him, Achilles interposes. Ther. I fay, this Ajax

Achil. Nay, good Ajax.

Ther. Has not fo much wit

Achil. Nay, I must hold you,

Ther. As will ftop the Eye of Helen's Needle, for whom he comes to fight.

Achil. Peace, Fool.

Ther. I would have peace and quietness, but the Fool will not: he there, that he, look you there.

Ajax. O thou damn'd Cur, I fhall

Achil. Will you fet your wit to a Fool's?

Ther. No, I warrant you, for à Fool's will fhame it.
Pat. Good Words, Therfites.

Achil. What's the Quarrel?

Ajax. I bad the vile Owl, go learn me the tenure of the Proclamation, and he rails upon me.

Ther. I ferve thee not.

Ajax. Well, go to, go to.

Ther. I ferve, here voluntary.

Achil. Your laft Service was fufferance, 'twas not voluntary, no Man is beaten voluntary: Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an Imprefs.

Ther. E'en fo--a great deal of your Wit too lies in your Sinews, or elfe there be Liars: Hector fhall have a great catch, if he knock out either of your Brains, he were as good crack a fufty Nut with no Kernel.

Achil. What, with me too, Therfites?

Ther. There's Ulyffes, and old Neftor, whofe Wit was mouldy e'er their Grandfires had Nails on their Toes, yoke you like draft Oxen, and make you plough up the wair. Achil. What! what!

Ther. Yes, good footh, to Achilles, to Ajax, to

Ajax. I fhall cut out your Tongue.

Ther. 'Tis no matter, I fhall fpeak as much as thou afterwards.

Pa. No more Words, Therfites.

Ther. I will hold my peace when Achilles Brach bids me,

fhall I

Achil. There's for you, Patroclus.

Ther.

Ther. I will fee you hang'd like Clotpoles, e'er I come any more to your Tents, I will keep where there is wit ftirring, and leave the Faction of Fools.

Pat. A good riddance.

[Exit.

Achil. 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 fome Knight to Arms,
That hath a Stomach, and fuchia one that dare
Maintain I know not what: 'Tis trafh, farewel.
Ajax. Farewell who shall answer him?

Achil. I know not, 'tis put to Lott'ry; otherwise
He knew his Man.

Ajax. O, meaning you, I will go learn more of it. [Exit.

SCENE II. Priam's Palace in Troy.

Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris and Helenus.
Pri. After fo many Hours, Lives, Speeches spent,
Thus once again fays Neftor from the Greeks,
Deliver Helen, and all damage else

(As Honour, lofs of Time, Travel, Expence,
Wounds, Friends, and what elfe dear, that is confum'd
In not digeftion of this Cormorant War)

Shall be ftruck off. Hector, what fay you to't?

Hect. Though no Man leffer fears the Greeks than I,
As far as touches my particular; yet, dread Priam,
There is no Lady of more fofter Bowels,
More fpungy to fuck in the fenfe of fear,
More ready to cry out, Who knows what follows,
Than Hector is; the wound of Peace is furety,
Surety fecure; but modeft doubt is call'd
The Beacon of the wife; the Tent that fearches
To th' bottom of the worst. Let Helen go.

Since the first Sword was drawn about this Question,
Every Tithe Soul 'mongst many thoufand difmes,
Hath been as dear as Helen, I mean of ours:
If we have loft fo many Tenths of ours
To guard a thing not ours, nor worth to us
(Had it our Name) the value of one ten;

What

What merit's in that reafon, which denies
The yielding of her up?

Troi. Fie, fie, my Brother:

Weigh you the worth and honour of a King
(So great is our dread Father) in a Scale

Of common Ounces? Will you with Counters fum
The vaft proportion of his Infinite ?

And buckle in a waste, most fathomless,
With Spans and Inches fo diminutive,
As Fears and Reafons? Fie for godly shame.

Hel. No marvel, tho' you bite fo sharp at Reasons,
You are empty of them. Should not our Father
Bear the great fway of his Affairs with Reafons,
Because your Speech hath none that tells him fo?
Troi. You are for Dreams and Slumbers, Brother Priest,
You fur your Gloves with Reason: Here are your Reafons,
You know an Enemy intends you harm:
You know, a Sword imploy'd is perillous,
And Reafon flies the object of all harm:
Who marvels then, when Helenus beholds
A Grecian and his Sword, if he do fet
The very wings of Reafon to his He Is:

Or like a Star diforb'd.

Nay, if we talk of Reason,

And flie like chidden Mercury from Jove,

Let's shut our Gates and fleep: Manhood and Honour Should have hard Hearts, would they but fat their Thoughts

With this cram'd Reafon: Reason and Respect

Make Lovers pale, and luftyhood deject.

Het. Brother, he is not worth

What he doth coft the holding.

Troi. What's ought, but as 'tis valu’d?

Hect. But value dwells not in particular Will,

It holds his Eftimate and Dignity,

As well wherein 'tis precious of it self,
As in the prizer: 'Tis made Idolatry,
To make the Service greater than the God;
And the will dotes, that is inclinable
To what infectiously it felf affects,
Without fome Image of th' affected Merit.

Troi. I take to day a Wife, and my Election
Is led on in the conduct of my Will;
My Will enkindled in mine Eyes and Ears,
Two traded Pilots 'twixt the dangerous Shores
Of Will and Judgment. How may I avoid
(Although my Will diftaft what is elected)
The Wife I chofe? there can be no evafion
To blench from this, and to ftand firm by Honour.
We turn not back the Silks upon the Merchant,
When we have spoil'd them; nor the remainder Viands
We do not throw in unrefpective place,

Because we now are full. It was thought meet
Paris fhould do fome Vengeance on the Greeks;
Your Breath of full confent bellied his Sails,
The Seas and Winds (old Wranglers) took a Truce,
And did him Service; he touch'd the Ports defir'd,
And for an old Aunt, whom the Greeks held Captive,
He brought a Grecian Queen, whofe youth and freshness
Wrinkles Apollo's, and makes ftale the Morning.
Why keep we her? the Grecians keep our Aunt:
Is the worth keeping? why, fhe is a Pearl,
Whose Price hath launch'd above a thousand Ships,
And turn'd Crown'd Kings to Merchants.
If you'll avouch 'twas Wisdom, Paris went,
(As you must needs, for you all cry'd, Go, go:)
If you'll confefs, he brought home noble Prize,
(As you must needs, for you all clap'd your Hands)
And cry'd, Ineftimable; why do you now
The iffue of your proper Wifdoms rate,
And do a deed that Fortune never did,
Begger the Eftimation, which you priz'd
Richer than Sea and Land? O Theft moft bafe!
That we have ftoln what we do fear to keep.
But Theives, unworthy of a thing fo ftoln,
That in their Country did them that Disgrace,
We fear to warrant in our native Place.

Enter Caffandra with her Hair about her Ears.

Caf. Cry, Trojans, cry.

Pri. What noife? what fhriek in this?

Troi. 'Tis our mad Sifter, I do know her Voice.
Caf. Cry, Trojans.

Hed.

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Helt. It is Caffandra.

Caf. Cry, Trojans, cry; lend me ten thousand Eyes, And I will fill them with prophetick Tears.

Hect. Peace, Sifter, Peace.

Caf. Virgins and Boys, mid- Age and wrinkled Old,
Soft Infancy, that nothing can but cry,
Add to my Clamour: Let us pay betimes
A moiety of that mafs of Moan to come.
Cry, Trojans, cry, practise your Eyes with Tears,
Troy mult not be, nor goodly Ilion ftand,
Our Fire-brand Brother Paris burns us all.
Cry, Trojans, cry, a Helen and a Wo;
Cry, cry, Troy burns, or elfe let Helen go.

[Exit.

Hed. Now, youthful Troilus, do not the high Strains
Of Divination in our Sifter work

Some touches of Remorfe? Or is your
Blood
So madly hot, that no difcourfe of Reason,
Nor fear of bad Succefs in a bad Cause,
Can qualifie the fame?

Troi. Why, Brother Helor,

We may not think the juftness of each act
Such and no other than Event doth form it;
Nor once deject the Courage of our Minds,
Because Caffandra's mad; her brain-fick Raptures
Cannot diftaste the goodness of a Quarrel,
Which hath our feveral Honours all engag'd
To make it gracious. For my private part,
I am no more touch'd than all Priam's Sons,
And Jove forbid, there should be done amongft us
Such things as might offend the weakest Spleen,
To fight for, and maintain.

Par. Elfe might the World convince of Levity,
As well my Undertakings, as your Counsels :
But I atteft the Gods, your full confent
Gave Wings to my Propenfion, and cut off
All Fears attending on fo dire a Project.
For what, alas, can thefe my fingle Arms?
What Propugnation is in one Man's Valour,
To ftand the Puth and Enmity of those
This Quarrel would excite? Yet, I proteft,

Were

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