Muft fall out with Men too: What the declin'd is, Which when they fall (as being flippery standers) Save thefe Mens Looks, who do methinks find out As they have often given. Here is Vlyffes, I'll interrupt his Reading. How now Vlyffes? Ulys. Now, great Thetis Son! Writes me, that Man, how dearly ever parted, Achil. This is not ftrange, Ulyffes, The Beauty that is born here in the Face, Salute each other, with each others Form. For Speculation turns not to it felf, (Tчo' in and of him) there is much confifting, 'Till he communicate his Parts to others: Nor doth he of himself know them for ought, Where they're extended: Which like an Arch reverb rates His Figure, and his Heat. I was much rapt in this, The unknown Ajax. Heavens! What a Man is there? A very Horfe, How fome Men creep in skittish Fortune's Hall, Achil. I do believe it, For they paft by me, as Mifers do by Beggars, Uly. Time hath, my Lord, a Wallet at his Back, A great-fiz'd Monster of Ingratitudes: Thofe fcraps are good Deeds paft, Which are devour'd as faft as they are made, Forgot as foon as done: Perfeverance, dear my Lord, In monumental Mock'ry: Take the inftant way, That That one by one purfue; if you give Way Or like a gallant Horse fall'n in first Rark, O'er-run and trampl'd on: Then what they do in prefent That flightly shakes his parting Gueft by th' Hard; One touch of Nature makes the whole World Kin; More Laud in Gilt o'er-dufted, The prefent Eye, praises the prefent Object. Whofe glorious Deeds, but in thefe Fields of late, Achil. Of this my Privacy, I have ftrong Reafons. Vlyf. But gainft your Privacy, The Reasons are more potent and heroical Achil. Ha! known? Vlyf. Is that a wonder? The Providence that's in a watchful State, Knows almost every grain of Pluto's Gold; Finds bottom in th' uncomprehenfive deep, Keeps place with thought; and, almoft like the Gods, Does thoughts unveil in their dumb Cradles: There is a Mystery (with whom relation Durft never meddle) in the Soul of State; Which hath an Operation more divine, Than Breath or Pen can give expressure to: All the commerce that you have had with Troy, As perfectly is ours, as yours, my Lord. And better would it fit Achilles much, To throw down Hector, than Polyxena. But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, When Fame fhall in her Ifland found her Trump; And all the Greekifh Girls fhall tripping fing, Great Hector's Sifter did Achilles win; But our great Ajax bravely beat down him. Farewel, my Lord-I, as your Lover, speak; The Fool flides o'er the Ice that you should break. Patr. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov'd you; A Woman, impudent, and mannish grown, Is not more loath'd than an effeminate Man, In time of Action: I ftand condemn'd for this; They think my little ftomach to the War, And your great love to me, reftrains you thus: Sweet, roufe your felf; and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your Neck unloofe his amorous fold, And like a dew-drop from the Lion's mane, Be fhook to airy Air. Achil, Shall Ajax fight with Hector!--- Pair. Ay, and perhaps receive much Honour by him, My Fame is fhrewdly gor'd. Patr. O then beware: Those wounds heal ill that Men do give themselves: Seals a Commiffion to a blank of Danger, Achil. Go call Therfites hither, fweet Patroclus, To fee great Hector in the weeds of Peace, To talk with him, and to behold his Vifage, Achil. What? Ther. Ajax goes up and down the Field, asking for himfelf. Achil. How fo? Ther. He must fight fingly to Morrow with Hector, and is fo prophetically proud of an heroical Cudgelling, that he raves, in faying nothing. Achil. How can that be? Ther. Why, he ftalks up and down like a Peacock, a ftride and a ftand; ruminates like an Hoftefs that hath no Arithmetick, but her Brain to fet down her Reckoning; bites his Lip with a politick regard, as who fhould fay, there were Wit in his Head, and 'twou'd out; and fo there is, but it lies as coldly in him as Fire in a Flint, which will not fhew without knocking. The Man's undone for ever; for if Hector break not his Neck i'th' Combat, he'll break't himfelf in Vain-glory. He knows not me: I faid, Good morrow, Ajax. And he replies, Thanks Agamemnon. What think you of this Man, that takes me for the General? He's grown a very Land-fish----languageless---a Monster; a plague of Opinion, a Man may wear it on both fides, like a Leather Jerkin. Achil. Thou must be my Ambaffador to him, Therfites. Ther. Who? I ?----why, he'll answer no Body; he profeffes not answering; speaking is for Beggars; he wears his Tongue in's Arms; I will put on his prefence; let Patroclus make his demands to me, you shall fee the Pageant of Ajax. Achil. To him, Patroclus---tell him, I humbly defire the valiant Ajax, to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarm'd to my Tent, and to procure fafe Conduct for his Perfon, of the Magnanimous and moft Illuftrious, fix or fe |