The obligation of our Blood forbids Were thy Commixion Greek and Trojan so, Ajax. I thank thee, Hector: Thou art too gentle, and too free a Man: Hect. Not Neoptolemus fo mirable, On whose bright Creft, Fame with her loud'ft O yes, A thought of added Honour torn from Hector. Ane. There is expectance here from both the fides: What further you will do. Hect. We'll answer it: The iffue is Embracement: Ajax, farewel. Dio. Tis Agamemnon's with, and great Achilles To the expectors of the Trojan part: Defire him home. Give me thy Hand, my Coufin: Aga Agamemnon and the rest of the Greeks co me forward. Ajax. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here. Hect. The worthieft of them, tell me name by name; But for Achilles, mine own fearching Eyes Shall find him by his large and portly fize. Aga. Worthy of Arms; as welcome as to one But that's no welcome: Underftand more clear, But in this extant moment, faith and troth, From Heart of very Heart, great Hector, welcome. Ane. The Noble Menelaus. Hect. O----you my Lord----by Mars his Gauntlet thanks, Mock not, that I affect th' untraded Oath, Your quendam Wife fwears ftill by Venus Glove, She's well, but bad me not commend her to you. Neft. I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft Through ranks of Greekish Youth; and I have feen thee, And feen thee fcouring Forfeits and Subduements, And I have feen thee pause, 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. Helt. 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-Vlyf. I wonder now how yonder City ftands, When we have here the Bafe and Pillar by us. Helt. I know your favour, Lord Vlyffes, well. Ah, Sir, there's many a Greek and Trojan dead, Since firft I fay you felf and Diomede In Ilion, on your Greekish Embaffe. 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. Moft gentle, and most valiant Hector, welcome; To feaft with me, and fee me at my Tent. Hect. Is this Achilles? Achil. I am Achilles. Hect. Stand fair, I prithee, let me look on thee. He Het. Nay, I have done already. Achil. Thou art too brief, I will the fecond time, As I would buy thee, view thee, limb by limb. Hect, O, like a Book of Sport thou'lt read me o'er: But there's more in me than thou underftand'ft. Why doft thou fo opprefs me with thine Eye? Achil. Tell me, you Heav'ns, in which part of his Body Shall I destroy him? Whether there, or there, or there, That I may give the local Wound a name, And make diftin&t 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 If Hed, I pray you, let us fee you in the Field, We have had pelting Wars fince you refus'd The Grecian's Caufe. Achil. Doft thou intreat me, Hector? To Morrow do I meet thee, fell as Death, Hect. Thy Hand upon that match. Aga. First, 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 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? Vlyf. You fhall command me, Sir: As gently tell me, of what Honour was This Creffida in Troy; had the no Lover there, Troi. O Sir, to fuch as boafting fhew their Scars, But ftill, sweet Love is Food for Fortune's tooth. [Exeunt A CT. V. SCENE I. SCENE before Achilles Tent in the Grecian Camp. Enter Achilles and Patroculus. Achil. T'LL heat his Blood with Greekish Wine to Night, Patroclus, let us Feaft him to the height. Pair. Here comes Therfites. Enter Therfites. Achil. How now, thou core of Envy? Thou crufty batch of Nature, what's the News? Ther. Why, thou Picture of what thou seem'st, and Idol of Idiot-worshippers, here's a Letter for thee. Achil. From whence, Fragment? Ther. |