In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;
For honour travels in a streight so narrow,
Where one but goes abreaft: keep then the path:
For emulation hath a thousand fons,

That one by one pursue; If you give way,
Or hedge afide from the-direct forthright,
Like to an entred tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmoft ;-

Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,

O'er-run and trampled on: Then what they do in prefent,

Though lefs than yours in paft, muft o'er-top yours: For Time is like a fashionable host,

That flightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms out-stretch'd, as he would fly, Grafps-in the comer: Welcome ever fmiles,

And Farewell goes out fighing. O, let not virtue

feek

Remuneration for the thing it was; for beauty, wit,
High birth, vigour of bone, defert in fervice,
Love, friendship, charity, are fubjects all
To envious and calumniating time.

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,→→
That all, with one confent, praise new-born gawds,
Though they are made and moulded of things paft;
And fhew to dust, that is a little gilt,
More laud than gilt o'er-dusted.

The prefent eye praises the present object:
Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,
That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax;
Since things in motion fooner catch the eye,
Than what not ftirs.. The cry went once on thee,
And ftill it might, and yet it may again,

If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive,

And cafe thy reputation in thy tent;

Whofe glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Made emulous millions'mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction.

Achil. Of this my privacy

I have ftrong reafons.

Uly. But 'gainst your privacy

The reafons are more potent and heroical
'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love
With one of Priam's daughters.

Achil. Ha! known?

Uly. Is that a wonder?

The providence that's in a watchful ftate,
Knows almost every grain of Pluto's gold;
Finds bottom in the uncomprehenfive deeps;
Keeps place with thought; and almost, like the gods,
Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles.
There is a mystery (with whom relation
Durft never meddle) in the foul of state;
Which hath an operation more divine,
Than breath, or pen, can give expreffure 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 thall in our islands found her trump;
And all the Greekish girls fhall tripping fing,—
Great Hector's fifter did Achilles win;

But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.
Farewell, my lord: I as your lover speak;
The fool flides o'er the ice that you should break.

Patr.

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, restrains you thus:
Sweet, rouze yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid
Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,
And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane,
Be fhook to air.

Achil. Shall Ajax fight with Hector?

Patr. Ay; and, perhaps, receive much honour by Achil. I fee, my reputation is at ftake; My fame is fhrewdly gor'd.

Patr. O, then beware;

[him.

Those wounds heal ill, that men do give themselves; Omiffion to do what is neceffary

Seals a commiffion to a blank of danger;

And danger, like an ague, fubtly taints
Even then when we fit idly in the fun.

Achil. Go call Therfites hither, fweet Patroclus:
I'll fend the fool to Ajax, and defire him
To invite the Trojan lords after the combat,
To fee us here unarm'd: I have a woman's longing,
An appetite that I am fick withal,

To fee great Hector in his weeds of

peace; To talk with him, and to behold his visage, Even to my full of view. A labour fav'd!

Enter THERSITES.

Ther. A wonder!

Achil. What?

Ther. Ajax goes up and down the field, afking

for himself.

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 saying nothing. Achil. How can that be?

Ther. Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock, a ftride, and a ftand; ruminates like an hoftefs, that hath no arithmetic but her brain to fet down her reckoning: bites his lip with a politick regard, as who should say—there were wit in this head, an 'twould 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'the combat, he'll break it himself 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-fifh, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! a man may wear it on both fides like a leather jerkin.

Achil. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Therfites.

Ther. Who, I? why, he'll anfwer no body: he profeffes not answering; fpeaking is for beggars; he wears his tongue in his arms. I will put on his prefence; let Patroclus make demands to me, you thall 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 magpanimous, and moft illustrious, fix-or-feven-times

honour'd

1

honour'd captain-general of the Grecian army, Agamemnon, &c. Do this.

Patr. Jove blefs great Ajax!

Ther. Hum!

Patr. I come from the worthy Achilles.
Ther. Ha!

Patr. Who moft humbly defires you to invite Hector to his tent.

Ther. Hum!

Patr. And to procure fafe conduct from Aga

memnon.

Ther. Agamemnon?

Patr. Ay, my lord,

Ther. Ha!

Patr. What fay you to't?

Ther. God be wi'you, with all my heart,

Patr. Your answer, fir.

Ther. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o'clock it will go one way or other; howfoever, he fhall pay for me ere he has me.

Patr. Your answer, fir.

Ther. Fare you well, with all

my heart.

Achil. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he? Ther. No, but he's out o'tune thus. What mufick will be in him when Hector has knock'd out his brains, I know not: But, I am fure, none; unless the fidler Apollo get his finews to make catlings on.

Achil. Come, thou fhalt bear a letter to him ftraight.

Ther. Let me bear another to his horse; for that's the more capable creature.

Achil. My mind is troubled, like a fountain ftirr'd;

G

And