Re-enter ULYSSES. Ajax. I do hate a proud man, as I hate the engendering of toads. Neft. Yet he loves himself: is't not strange? Vyf. Achilles will not to the field to-morrow. Aga. What's his excufe? Ulyf. He doth rely on none; But carries on the ftream of his dispose, Aga. Why will he not, upon our fair request, Untent his perfon, and thare the air with us! Ulf. Things fmall as nothing, for request's fake only, He makes important: he is poffefs'd with greatnefs, And batters down himself! what fhould I fay? ga. Let Ajax go to him. Dear Lord, go you and greet him in his tent; Ulyf. O, Agamemnon, let it not be fo. No, this thrice-worthy and right-valiant Lord (As amply titled as Achilles is) by going to Achilles: This Lord go to him? Jupiter forbid, ga. O no, you shall not go. Ajax. An he be proud with me, I'll pheese his pride; let me go to him. Ulyf. Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel. Ajax. A paltry infolent fellow---- Neft. How he defcribes himfelf! Ajax. Can he not be fociable ? Aga. He'll be the phyfician that should be the patient. Ajax. An all men were o' my mind Ajax. He fhould not bear it fo, he fhould eat fwords first: fhall pride carry it ! Neft. An 'twould, you'd carry half. jax. I will knead him, I will make him fupple,--Neft. He is not yet through warm: (13) force (13) Ajax. I wid knead him, I'll make him fupple, he is not yet through warm. Neft. Force him with praifes, &c.] The latter part of A him with praises; pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry. Uhf. My Lord, you feed too much on this dislike. Neft. Our noble general, do not do fo. Die. You must prepare to fight without Achilles. Ulyf. Why, 'tis this naming of him doth him harm. Here is a man---but 'tis before his face----- Neft. Wherefore fhould you fo? He is not emulous, as Achilles is. Ulyf. Know the whole world he is as valiant. Ajax. A whorefon dog! that palters thus with Would he were a Trojan! Neft. What a vice were it in Ajax now--- Ulyf. If he were proud. Dio. Or covetous of praife. Ulyf. Ay, or furly borne. Dio. Or ftrange, or felf-affected. [us-- Ulyf. Thank the heavens, Lord, thou art of fweet compofure; Praise him that got thee, her that gave thee fuck: jax's fpeech is certainly got out of place, and ought to be affigned to Neftor, as I have ventured to tranfpofe it. Ajaz is feeding on his vanity, and boafting what he'll do to Achilles; he'll pafh him o'er the face, he'll make him eat fwords; he'll knead him, he'll fupple him, &c. Neftor and Ulyffes flily labour to keep him up in this vein, and to this end Neftor craftily hints that Ajax is not warm yet, but muft be crammed with more flattery. Which, like a bourn, a pale, a fhore, confines Inftructed by the antiquary times, He mult, he is, he cannot but be wife: Ajax. Shall I call you father? Ulyf. Ay, my good fon. Dio Be ruled by him, Lord Ajax. [les Uhf. There is no tarrying here; the hart Achil Fresh kings are come to Troy; to-morrow, friends, Aga. Go we to council, let Achilles fleep; Light boats fail fwift, though greater hulks draw [Exeunt. deep. ACT III. SCENE, Paris's Apartments in the Palace, in Troy. Enter PANDARUS and a Servant. [Mufic within. PANDA RUS. FRIEND! you! pray you, a word: do not you follow the young Lord Paris? Serv. Ay, Sir, when he goes before me. Pan. You do depend upon a noble gentleman: I muft needs praise him. Serv. The Lord be praifed ! Pan. You know me, do you not? Serv. Faith, Sir, fuperficially. Pan. Friend, know me better; I am the Lord Fandarus Serv. I hope I fhall know your Honour better. Serv. You are in the ftate of grace? Pan. Grace? not fo, friend: Honour and Lordfhip are my titles. What mufic is this? Serv. I do but partly know, Sir; it is mufic in parts. Pan. Know you the musicians? Serv. Wholly, Sir. Pan. Who play they to? Serv. To the hearers, Sir. Pan. At whofe pleasure, friend? Serv. At mine, Sir, and theirs that love mufic, Serv. Who fhall I command, Sir? Pan. Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly, and thou art too cunning. At whofe requeft do thefe men play? Serv. That's to't, indeed, Sir; marry, Sir, at the request of Paris my Lord, who's there in perfon; with him the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love's invifible foul. Par. Who, my roufin Crefida? Serv. No, Sir, Helen; could you not find out that by her attributes? Pan. It fhould feem, fellow, that thou haft not feen the Lady Cretfida. I come to fpeak with Paris from the Prince Troilus: I will make a complimental affault upon him, for my bufinefs feethes. Serv. Sodden afinefs! there's a ftewed phrafe, indeed. |