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Agamemnon and the rest of the Greeks co me forward.
Ajax. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here.
Hect. The worthiest of them, tell me name by name;
But for Achilles, mine own fearching Eyes
Shall find him by his large and portly fize.

Aga. Worthy of Arms; as welcome as to one
That would be rid of fuch an Enemy.

But that's no welcome: Understand more clar,
What's paft and what's to come, is ftrew'd with husks
And formlefs ruin of Oblivion:

But in this extant moment, faith and troth,
Strain'd purely from all hollow bias drawing,
Bids thee with moft divine Integrity,

From Heart of very Heart, great Hector, welcome.
Hect. I thank thee, moft Imperious Agamemnon. [To Troi.
Aga. My well fam'd Lord of Troy, no lefs to you.
Men. Let me confirm my Princely Brother's Greeting,
You brace of warlike Brothers, welcome hither.
Hect. Whom must we answer?

Ane. The Noble Menelaus.

Helt. O...you my Lord----by Mars his Gauntlet thanks, Mock not, that I affect th' untraded Oath,

Your quondam Wife fwears ftill by Venus Glove,

She's well, but bad me not commend her to you.

Men. Name her not now, Sir, fhe's a deadly Theme.
Helt. O pardon-I offend.

Neft. I have, thou gallant Trojan, feen thee oft
Labouring for Destiny, make cruel way

Through ranks of Greekih Youth; and I have seen thee,
As hot as Perfeus,. fpur thy Phrygian Steed,

And feen thee fcouring Forfeits and Subduements,
When thou haft hung thy advanc'd Sword i'th'Air,

Not letting it decline on the declined:
That I have faid unto my Standers-by,
Lo, Jupiter is yonder dealing Life.

And I have feen thee paufe, and take thy Breath,
When that a Ring of Greeks have hem'd thee in,
Like an Olympian wrestling. Thus I have seen,
But this thy Countenance, ftill stock'd in Steel,
I never faw 'till now. I knew thy Grandfire,
And once fought with him; he was a Soldier good,


But by great Mars, the Captain of us all,
Never like thee. Let an old Man embrace thee,
And, worthy Warrior, welcome to our Tents.
Ene. 'Tis the old Neftor.

Hect. Let me embrace thee, good old Chronicle,
That haft fo long walk'd Hand in Hand with time:
Moft reverend Neftor, I am glad to clafp thee.

Neft. I would my Arms could match thee in Contention, As they contend with thee in Courtefie.

Hect. I would they could.

Neft. Ha? by this white Beard I'd fight with thee to Morrow. Well, welcome, welcome; I have feen the time--Ulys. I wonder now how yonder City flands, When we have here the Base and Pillar by us. Hect. I know your favour, Lord Vlyffes, well. Ah, Sir, there's many a Greek and Trojan dead, Since first I fay you felf and Diomede

In Ilion, on your Greekish Embahe.

Vlyf. Sir, I foretold you then what would enfue.
My Prophefie is but half his Journey yet,

For yonder Walls that partly front your Town;
Yond Towers, whofe wanton tops do bufs the Clouds,
Muft kifs their own Feet.

Hect. I must not believe you:

There they ftand yet; and modeftly I think,
The fall of every Phrygian Stone will coft
A drop of Grecian Blood; the end crowns all,
And that old common Arbitrator, Time,
Will one Day end it.

Vlyf. So to him we leave it.

Molt gentle, and most valiant Hector, welcome;
After the General, I befeech you next.
To feast with me, and fee me at my Tent.
Achil. I fhall forestal thee, Lord Vlyffes, thoua
Now Hector, I have fed mine Eyes on thee,
I have with exact view perus'd thee, Hector,
And quoted joint by joint.

Hect. Is this Achilles?

Achil. I am Achilles.

Hect. Stand fair, I prithee, let me look on thee.
Achil. Behold thy fill,


Het. Nay, I have done already.

Achil. Thou art too brief, I will the fecond time,
As I would buy thee, view thee, limb by limb.
Hect. O, like a Book of Sport thou'lt read me o'er;
But there's more in me than thou understand'ft.
Why doft thou fo opprefs me with thine Eye?.
Achil. Tell me, you Heav'ns, in which part of his Body
Shall I deftroy him? Whether there, or there, or there,
That I may give the local Wound a name,

And make diftinct the very breach, where-out
Hector's great Spirit flew. Anfwer me, Heav'ns.
Hect. It would difcredit the bleft Gods, proud Man,
To answer fuch a Queftion: Stand again,
Think'st thou to catch my Life fo pleasantly,
As to prenominate in nice Conjecture,
Where thou wilt hit me dead?

Achil. I tell thee, yea.

Hect. Wert thou the Oracle to tell me fo,
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 ftythied Mars his Helm,
I'll kill thee every where, yea o'er and o'er.
You wifeft Grecians, pardon me this brag,
His Infolence draws folly from my Lips,
But I'll endeavour Deeds to match these Words,
Or may I never

Ajax. Do not chafe thee, Coufin;

And you, Achilles, let thefe Threats alone
'Till accident or purpose bring you to't.
You may have ev'ry day enough of Hector?
If you have Stomach. The general State, I fear,
Can scarce intreat you to be odd with him.

Hedt. I pray you, let us fee you in the Field,
We have had pelting Wars fince you refus'd
The Grecian's Caufe.

Achil. Doft thou intreat me, Hector? To Morrow do I meet thee, fell as Death, To Night, all Friends.

Helt. Thy Hand upon that match.

Aga. Firft, all you Peers of Greece go to my Tent, There in the full convive you; afterwards,


As Hector's Leifure, and your Bounties shall
Concur together, feverally intreat him.

Beat loud the Taborins, let the Trumpets blow;.
That this great Soldier may his welcome know.
Manent Troilus and Ulyffes.

Troi. My Lord Vlyffes, tell me, I beseech you,
In what place of the Field doth Calchas keep?
Vlyf. At Menelaus Tent, moft Princely Troilus;
There Diomede doth feaft with him to Night;
Who neither looks on Heav'n, nor on Earth,
But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view
On the fair Creffid.


Troi. Shall I, fweet Lord, be bound to thee fo much, After you part from Agamemnon's Tent,

To bring me thither?

Uly. You fhall command me, Sir:

As gently tell me, of what Honour was

This Creffida in Troy; had the no Lover there,
That wails her abfence?

Trdi. O Sir, to fuch as boafting fhew their Scars,
A mock is due: Will you walk on, my Lord?

She was belov'd, fhe lov'd; fhe is, and doth.
But still, sweet Love is Food for Fortune's tooth. [Exeunt ̧

A CT V. SCENE I. SCENE before Achilles Tent in the Grecian Camp.

Enter Achilles and Patroculus.

Achil. I'LL heat his Blood with Greeki Wine to Night, Patroclus, let us Feaft him to the height.

Patr. Here comes Therfites.

Enter Therfites.

Achil. How now, thou core of Envy?
Thou crufty batch of Nature, what's the News?

Ther. Why, thou Picture of what thou seem'ft, and Idol of Idiot-worshippers, here's a Letter for thee.

Achil. From whence, Fragment?


Ther. Why, thou full difh of Fool, from Troy.
Patr. Who keeps the Tent now?

Ther. The Surgeon's Box, or the Patient's Wound.

Patr. Well Said, Adverfity; and what need these Tricks? Ther. Prithee be filent, Boy, I profit not by thy talk, Thou art thought to be Achilles's Male-Varlet.

Patr. Male-Varlet, you Rogue? What's that?

Ther. Why, his mafculine Whore. Now the rotted Difcafes of the South, Guts-griping, Ruptures, Catarrhs, loads o' Gravel i'th' Backs, Lethargies, cold Palfies, and the like, take and take again fuch prepofterous Discoveries,

Potr. Why, thou damnable Box of Envy, thou, what me n'ft thou to Curfe thus?

Ther. Do I curfe thee?

Patr. Why no, you ruinous Butt, you whorefon indiftinguishable Cur.

Ther. No? Why art thou then exafperate, thou idle immatterial Skein of fley'd Silk; thou green Sarcenet flap for a fore Eye; thou Taffel of a Prodigal's purfe, thou? Ah, how the poor World is peftred with fuch Water-flies, diminutives of Nature.

Patr. Out Gall!

Ther. Finch Egg!

Achil. My fweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite
From my great purpose in to morrow's Battel:
Here is a Letter from Queen Hecuba,

A Token from her Daughter, my fair Love,
Both taxing me, and gaging me to keep

An Oath that I have fworn. I will not break it,
Fall Greek, fail Fame, Honour, or go, or stay,
My major Vow lyes here; this I'll obey:
Come, come, Therfites, help to trim my Tent,
This Night in Banqueting must all be spent.
Away, Patroclus.

[Exit. Ther. With too much Blood, and too little Brain, these two may run mad: But if with too much Brain, and too little Blood, they do, I'll be a Curer of Mad-men. Here's Agamemnon, an honeft Fellow enough, and one that loves Quails, but he has not fo much Brain as Ear-wax; and the good Transformation of Jupiter there his Brother, the Bull, the primitive Statue, and oblique Memorial of Cuckolds,

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