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SCENE II. The Grecian Camp.
Enter Therlites folus.

How, now, Therfites? what loft in the Labyrinth of thy Fury? Shall the Elephant, Ajax, carry it thus? He beats me, and I rail at him: O worthy Satisfaction! would it were otherwife; that I could beat him, whilft he rail'd at me: 'Sfoot, I'll learn to Conjure and raife Devils, but I'll fee fome issue of my fpiteful Execrations. Then there's Achilles, a rare Engineer. If Troy be not taken 'till thefe two undermine it, the Walls will ftand 'till they fall of themfelves. O thou great Thunder-darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove the King of Gods; and Mercury, lofe all the Serpentine Craft of thy Caduceus, if thou take not that little, little, lefs than little, wit from them that they have, which fort-arm'd Ignorance it felf knows, is to abundant fcarce, it will not in Circumvention deliver a Fly from a Spider, without drawing the maffy Irons and cutting the Web: After this, the Vengeance on the whole Camp, or rather the Bone-ach, for that, methinks, is the Curfe deper dant on thofe that war for a Placket. I have faid my Prayers, and Devil, Envy, fy Amen. What ho? my Lord Achilles?

Enter Patroclus.

Patr. Who's there? Therfites. Good Therfites, come in and rail.

Ther. If I could have remembred a gilt Counter, thou would'ft not have flip'd out of my Contemplation, but it is no matter, thy felf upon thy felf. The common Curfe of Mankind, Folly and Ignorance be thine in great Revenue; Heav'n blefs thee from a Tutor, and Difcipline come not near thee. Let thy Blood be thy direction 'till thy Death, then if she that lays thee our, fays thou art a fair Coarte, I'll be fworn and fworn upon't, the never throwded any but Lazars, Amen. Where's Achilles?

Patr. What, art thou devout? waft thou in a Prayer?
Ther. Ay, the Heav'ns hear me.

Enter Achilles.

Achil. Who's there?

Pair. Therfites, my Lord.

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Achil.

Achil. Were, where? art thou come? why, my Cheese, my Digeftion why haft thou not ferved thy felf up to my Table, fo many Meals? Come, what's Agamemnon?

Ther. Thy Commander, Achilles; then tell me, Patroclus, what's Achilles?

Patr. Thy Lord, Therfites: then tell me, I pray thee, what's thy felf?

Ther. Thy Knower, Patroclus: then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou?

Patr. Thou may'st tell, that know'st.

Achil. O tell, tell.

Ther. I'll decline the whole Question. Agamemnon commands Achilles, Achilles is my Lord, I am Patroclus's Knower, and Patroclus is a Fool.

Patr. You Rafcal

Ther. Peace, Fool, I have not done.

Achil. He is a privileg'd Man. Proceed, Therfites. Ther. Agamemnon is a Fool, Achilles is a Fool, Therfites is a Fool, and, as aforefaid, Patroclus is a Fool.

Achil. Derive this; come.

Ther. Agamemnon is a Fool to offer to command Achilles, Achilles is a Fool to be commanded of Agamemnon, Therfites is a Fool to ferve fuch a Fool, and Patroclus is a Fool pofitive.

Patr. Why am I a Fool?

Enter Agamemnon, Ulyffes, Neftor, Diomedes, Ajax, and Chalcas.

Ther. Make that demand to the Creator, it fuffices me thou art. Look you, who comes here?

Achil. Patroclus, I'll fpeak with no Body: Come in with me, Therfites.

[Exit.

Ther. Here is fuch Patchery, fach Jugling, and fuch Knavery all the Argument is a Cuckold and a Whore, a good quarrel to draw emulatious Factions, and bleed to Death upon: Now the dry Serpigo on the Subject, and War and Lechery confound all.

Aga. Where is Achilles?

Patr. Within his Tent, but ill difpos'd, my Lord.
Aga. Let it be known to him that we are here.

He fent our Meffengers, and we lay by

Our Appertainments, vifiting of him:

Let

Let him be told of, left perchance he think
VVe dare not move the queftion of our place,
Or know not what we are.

Patr. I fhall fo fay to him.

Vlyf. VVe faw him at the opening of his Tent, He is not fick.

Ajax. Yes, Lion-fick, fick of a proud heart: you may call it Melancholy, if you will favour the Man, but by my head, 'tis Pride; but why, why ?

caufe. A word, my Lord.

let him fhew us the [To Agamemnon.

Neft. VVhat moves Ajax thus to bay at him?
Vlyf. Achilles hath inveigled his Fool from him.
Neft. Who, Therfites?

Vly. He.

Neft. Then will Ajax lack Matter, if he have loft his Argument.

Vlyf. No, you fee he is his Argument, that has his Argument, Achilles.

Neft. All the better, their Fraction is more our wifh than their Faction; but it was a strong Counsel that a Fool could difunite.

Vlyf. The Amity that Wisdom knits not, Folly may eafily untye.

Here comes Patroclus.

Enter Patroclus.

Neft. No Achilles with him?

Vlyf. The Elephant hath Joints, but none for Courtefie; His Legs are Legs for neceffity, not for flight.

Patr. Achilles bids me fay, he is much forry,
If any thing more thin your Sport and Pleasure,
Did move your Greatnefs, and this noble State,
To call upon him; he hopes it is no other,
But for your health and your digeftion-fake;
An after-Dinner's Breath.

Aga. Hear you, Patroclus;

We are too well acquainted with thefe Anfwers:
But his evafion wing'd thus fwift with fcorn,
Cannot outflie our Apprehenfions.

Much attribute he hath, and much the reafon,
Why we afcribe it to him; yet all his Virtues,
(Not virtuously of his own part beheld)
Do in our Eyes begin to lose their Gloss;
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And

And like fair Fruit in an unwholfom Dish,
Are like to rot untafted; go and tell him,
We come to speak with him, and you shall not fin
you do fay, we think him over-proud,

If

And under-honeft; in Self-affumption greater

Than in the note of Judgment; and worthier than himself,
Here tend the favage Strangeness he puts or,
Difguife the holy Strength of their command,
And under write in an obferving kind
His humorous predominance; yea, watch
His pettifh lines, his ebbs, his flows; as if
The paffage and whole carriage of this Action
Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add,
That if he over-hold his price fo much,
We'll none of him; but let him, like an Engine
Not portable, lye under this report.
Bring Action hither, this cannot go to War;
A ftirring Dwarf we do allowance give,
Before a fleeping Gyant; tell him fo.

Pat. I fhall, and bring his anfwer prefently.
Aga. In fecond Voice we'll not be fatisfied,
We come to fpeak with him. Vlyffes, enter you.

Ajax. What is he more than another?
Aga. No more than what he thinks he is.

[Exit.

[Exit Ulyffes.

Ajax. Is he fo much? do you not think he thinks himself a better Man than I am?

Aga. No queftion.

Ajax. Will you fubfcribe his Thought, and fay, he is? Aga. No, noble Ajax, you are as ftrong, as valiant, as wife, no lefs noble, much more gentle, and altogether more aractable.

Ajax. Why fhould a Man be proud? How dcth Pride grow? I know not what it is.

Aga. Your Mind is clearer, Ajax, and your Virtues the fairer; he that is proud, eats up himself. Pride is his own Glafs, his own Trumpet, his own Chronicle, and whatever Praises it felf but in the Deed, devours the Deed in the Praise.

Enter

Enter Ulyffes.

Ajax. I do hate a proud Man, as I hate the engendring of Toads.

Neft. Yet he loves himself: Is't not ftrange?

Vlyf. Achilles will not to the Field to Morrow.
Aga. What's his Excufe?

Ulys. He doth rely on none;

But carries on the Stream of his Difpofe,
Without observance or refpect of any,

In Will peculiar, and in Self-admiffion,

Aga. Why will he not, upon our fair request, Un-tent his Perfon, and fhare the Air with us?

Vlyf. Things fmall as Nothing, for Requests fake only
He makes Important: Poffeft he is with Greatnefs,
And fpeaks not to himself, but with a Pride
That quarrels at Self-breath. Imagin'd Wrath
Holds in his Blood fuch fwol'n and hot Discourse,
That 'twixt his mental and his active Parts,
Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages,

And batters 'gainst it felf; what should I fay?
He is fo plaguy proud, that the death-tokens of it
Cry no recovery.

Aga. Let Ajax go to him.

Dear Lord, go you and greet him in his Tent;
'Tis faid he holds you well, and will be led
At your request, a little from himself.

Vlyf. O, Agamemnon, let it not be fo,
We'll confecrate the Steps that Ajax makes,
When they go from Achilles; fhall the proud Lord,
That baftes his Arrogance with his own Seam,
And never fuffers matter of the World
Enter his Thoughts, fave fuch as do revolve
And ruminate himself? Shall he be worship'd,
Of that we hold an Idol, more than he?
No, this Thrice Worthy, and Right Valiant Lord,
Must not so stale his Palm, nobly acquir'd,
Nor by my Will affubjugate his Merit,

As amply Titl'd, as Achilles is, by going to Achilles.
That were to enlard his Fat, already, Pride,
And add more Coles to Cancer, when he burns
With entertaining great Hyperion.

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