Agamemnon and the rest of the Greeks co me forward. Aga. Worthy of Arms; as welcome as to one But that's no welcome: Understand more clar, But in this extant moment, faith and troth, From Heart of very Heart, great Hector, welcome. 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. Neft. I have, thou gallant Trojan, feen thee oft Through ranks of Greekih Youth; and I have seen thee, And feen thee fcouring Forfeits and Subduements, Not letting it decline on the declined: And I have feen thee paufe, and take thy Breath, But But by great Mars, the Captain of us all, Hect. Let me embrace thee, good old Chronicle, 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. For yonder Walls that partly front your Town; Hect. I must not believe you: There they ftand yet; and modeftly I think, Vlyf. So to him we leave it. Molt gentle, and most valiant Hector, welcome; Hect. Is this Achilles? Achil. I am Achilles. Hect. Stand fair, I prithee, let me look on thee. Het. Het. Nay, I have done already. Achil. Thou art too brief, I will the fecond time, And make diftinct the very breach, where-out Achil. I tell thee, yea. Hect. Wert thou the Oracle to tell me fo, Ajax. Do not chafe thee, Coufin; And you, Achilles, let thefe Threats alone Hedt. I pray you, let us fee you in the Field, 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 As Hector's Leifure, and your Bounties shall Beat loud the Taborins, let the Trumpets blow;. Troi. My Lord Vlyffes, tell me, I beseech you, [Exeunt. 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, Trdi. O Sir, to fuch as boafting fhew their Scars, She was belov'd, fhe lov'd; fhe is, and doth. 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? 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. Ther. Why, thou full difh of Fool, from Troy. 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 A Token from her Daughter, my fair Love, An Oath that I have fworn. I will not break it, [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, |