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Ay, and good next day too.
[Exit Ajar. Achil. What mean these fellows? know they not
Achil. What, am I poor of late? 'Tis certain, Greatness, once fallen out with for
tune, Must fall out with men too: What the declin'd is, He shall as soon read in the eyes of others, As feel in his own fall: for men, like butterflies, Show not their mealy wings, but to the summer; And not a man, for being simply man, Hath any honour; but honour for those honours That are without him, as place, riches, favour, Prizes of accident as oft as merit: Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, The love that lean’d on them as slippery too, Do one pluck down another, and together Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me: Fortune and I are friends; I do enjoy At ample point all that I did possess, Save these men's looks; who do, methinks, find out Something not worth in me such rich beholding As they have often given. Here is Ulysses; I'll interrupt his reading. How now, Ulysses? Ulyss.
Now, great Thetis' son?
Achil. What are you reading?
A strange fellow here
This is not strange, Ulysses.
itself (That most pure spirit of sense) behold itself, Not going from itself; but eye to eye oppos'd Salutes each other with each other's form. For speculation turns not to itself, Till it bath travell’d, and is marry'd there Where it may see itself: this is not strange at all.
Ulyss. I do not strain at the position, It is familiar; but at the author's drift: Who, in his circumstance, expressly provesThat no man is the lord of any thing, (Though in and of him there be much consisting) Till he communicate his parts to others: Nor doth he of himself know them for aught Till he behold them form'd in the applause Where they are extended; which, like an arch,
reverberates The voice again; or like a gate of steel Fronting the sun, receives and renders back His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this;
And apprehended here immediately
Moșt abject in regard, and dear in use!
Achil. I do believe it: for they pass'd by me,
Ulyss. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past; which are de
vourid As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright: To have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;
For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,That all, with one consent, praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past; And give to dust, that is a little gilt, More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present 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 sooner catch the eye,
Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and
inay again, If thou would'st not entomb thyself alive, And case thy reputation in thy tent; Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods them
selves, And drave great Mars to faction. Achil.
Of this my privacy I have strong reasons. Ulyss.
But 'gainst your privacy The reasons are more potent and heroical: 'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love With one of Priam's daughters. Achil.
Ha! known? Ulyss. Is that a wonder? The providence that's in a watchful state, Knows almost every grain of Plutus' gold; Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps; Keeps place with thought, and alınost, like the
gods, Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. There is a mystery (with whom relation Durst 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 shall in our islands sound her trump;