Act 2, Scene 3
The Grecian camp. Before Achilles' tent.
Enter THERSITES, solus
How now, Thersites! what lost 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 otherwise; that I could beat him,
whilst he railed at me. 'Sfoot, I'll learn to
conjure and raise devils, but I'll see some issue of
my spiteful execrations. Then there's Achilles, a
rare enginer! If Troy be not taken till these two
undermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of
themselves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus,
forget that thou art Jove, the king of gods and,
Mercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy
caduceus, if ye take not that little, little less
than wit from them that they have! which
short-armed ignorance itself knows is so abundant
scarce, it will not in circumvention deliver a fly
from a spider, without drawing their massy irons and
cutting the web. After this, the vengeance on the
whole camp! or rather, the bone-ache! for that,
methinks, is the curse dependent on those that war
for a placket. I have said my prayers and devil Envy
say Amen. What ho! my Lord Achilles!
Who's there? Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and rail.
If I could have remembered a counterfeit, thou
wouldst not have slipped out of my contemplation: but
it is no matter; thyself upon thyself! The common
curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in
great revenue! heaven bless thee from a tutor, and
discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy
direction till thy death! then if she that lays thee
out says thou art a fair corse, I'll be sworn and
sworn upon't she never shrouded any but lazars.
Amen. Where's Achilles?
What, art thou devout? wast thou in prayer?
Ay: the heavens hear me!
Thersites, my lord.
Where, where? Art thou come? why, my cheese, my
digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to
my table so many meals? Come, what's Agamemnon?
Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus,
Thy lord, Thersites: then tell me, I pray thee,
Thy knower, Patroclus: then tell me, Patroclus,
what art thou?
Thou mayst tell that knowest.
O, tell, tell.
I'll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands
Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus'
knower, and Patroclus is a fool.
Peace, fool! I have not done.
He is a privileged man. Proceed, Thersites.
Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites
is a fool, and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool.
Derive this; come.
Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles;
Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon;
Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool, and
Patroclus is a fool positive.
Why am I a fool?
Make that demand of the prover. It suffices me thou
art. Look you, who comes here?
Patroclus, I'll speak with nobody.
Come in with me, Thersites.
Here is such patchery, such juggling and such
knavery! all the argument is a cuckold and a
whore; a good emulous factions
and bleed to death upon. Now, the serpigo on
the subject! and war and lechery confound all!
Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, NESTOR, DIOMEDES, and AJAX
Where is Achilles?
Within his tent; but ill disposed, my lord.
Let it be known to him that we are here.
He lay by
Our appertainments, visiting of him:
Let him be told so; lest perchance he think
We dare not move the question of our place,
Or know not what we are.
I shall say so to him.
He is not sick.
Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart: you may call it
melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my
head, 'tis pride: but why, why? let him show us the
cause. A word, my lord.
Takes AGAMEMNON aside
What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?
Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.
Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument.
No, you see, he is his argument that has his
All the better; their fraction is more our wish than
their faction: but it was a strong composure a fool
The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily
untie. Here comes Patroclus.
No Achilles with him.
The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy:
his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure.
Achilles bids me say, he is much sorry,
If any thing more than your sport and pleasure
Did move your greatness and this noble state
To call upon him; he hopes it is no other
But for your health and your digestion sake,
And after-dinner's breath.
Hear you, Patroclus:
We are too well acquainted with these answers:
But his evasion, wing'd thus swift with scorn,
Cannot outfly our apprehensions.
Much attribute he hath, and much the reason
Why we ascribe it to him; yet all his virtues,
Not virtuously on his own part beheld,
Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss,
Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish,
Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him,
We come to speak with him; and you shall not sin,
If you do say we think him over-proud
And under-honest, in self-assumption greater
Than in the note of judgment; and worthier
Here strangeness he puts on,
Disguise the holy strength of their command,
And underwrite in an observing kind
His pettish lunes, his ebbs, his flows, as if
The passage and whole carriage of this action
Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add,
That if he overhold his price so much,
We'll none of him; but let him, like an engine
Not portable, lie under this report:
'Bring action hither, this cannot go to war:
A stirring dwarf we do allowance give
Before a sleeping giant.' Tell him so.
I shall; and answer presently.
In second voice we'll not be satisfied;
We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you.
What is he more than another?
No more than what he thinks he is.
Is he so much? Do you not think he thinks himself a
better man than I am?
Will you thought, and say he is?
No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as
wise, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether
Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I
know not what pride is.
Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the
fairer. He that is proud eats up himself: pride is
his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle;
and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours
the deed in the praise.
I do hate a proud man, as I hate the engendering of toads.
Yet he loves himself: is't not strange?
Achilles will not to the field to-morrow.
What's his excuse?
He doth rely on none,
But carries on the stream of his dispose
respect of any,
In will peculiar and in self-admission.
Why will he not upon our fair request
Untent his person and share the air with us?
Things small as nothing, for request's sake only,
He makes possess'd he is with greatness,
And speaks not to himself but with a pride
That quarrels at self-breath: imagined worth
Holds in his blood such swoln and hot discourse
That 'twixt his mental and his active parts
Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages
And batters down himself: what should I say?
He is so plaguy proud that the death-tokens of it
Cry 'No recovery.'
Let Ajax go to him.
Dear lord, go you and tent:
'Tis said he holds you well, and will be led
At your request a little from himself.
O Agamemnon, let it not be so!
We'll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes
When they go from Achilles: shall the proud lord
That bastes his arrogance with his own seam
And never suffers matter of the world
Enter his thoughts, save such as do revolve
And ruminate himself, shall he be worshipp'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 acquired;
Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit,
As amply titled as Achilles is,
By going to Achilles:
That were to enlard his pride
And add more coals to Cancer when he burns
With entertaining great Hyperion.
This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid,
And say in thunder 'Achilles go to him.'
Aside to DIOMEDES O, this is well; he rubs the
vein of him.
Aside to NESTOR And how his silence drinks up
If I go to him, with my armed fist I'll pash him o'er the face.
O, no, you shall not go.
An a' be proud with me, I'll pride:
Let me go to him.
Not for the quarrel.
A paltry, insolent fellow!
How he describes himself!
Can he not be sociable?
The raven chides blackness.
I'll let his humours blood.
He will be the physician that should be the patient.
An all men were o' my mind,--
Wit would be out of fashion.
A' should not bear it so, a' should eat swords first:
shall pride carry it?
An 'twould, you'ld carry half.
A' would have ten shares.
I will knead him; I'll make him supple.
He's not yet through warm: force him with praises:
pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry.
To AGAMEMNON My lord, you feed too much on this dislike.
Our noble general, do not do so.
You must prepare to fight without Achilles.
Why, 'tis this naming of him does him harm.
Here is a man--but 'tis before his face;
I will be silent.
Wherefore should you so?
He is not emulous, as Achilles is.
Know the whole world, he is as valiant.
A whoreson dog, that shall pelter thus with us!
Would he were a Trojan!
What a vice were it in Ajax now,--
If he were proud,--
Or covetous of praise,--
Ay, or surly borne,--
Or strange, or self-affected!
Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure;
Praise him that got thee, she that gave thee suck:
Famed be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature
Thrice famed, beyond all erudition:
But he that disciplined thy arms to fight,
Let Mars divide eternity in twain,
And give him half: and, for thy vigour,
Bull-bearing Milo his yield
To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom,
Which, like a pale, a shore, confines
Thy spacious and dilated parts: here's Nestor;
Instructed by the antiquary times,
He must, he is, he cannot but be wise:
Put pardon, father Nestor, were your days
You should not have the eminence of him,
But be as Ajax.
Shall I call you father?
Ay, my good son.
Be ruled by him, Lord Ajax.
There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles
Keeps thicket. Please it our great general
To call together all his state of war;
Fresh kings are come to Troy: to-morrow
We must with all our main of fast:
And here's a lord,--come knights from east to west,
And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best.
Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep:
swift, though greater hulks draw deep.