Page 2785 - Shakespeare - Vol. 2

And ’tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot, [135]
Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length,
Troy in our weakness lives, not in her strength.

NESTOR
Most wisely hath Ulysses here discovered
The fever whereof all our power is sick.

AGAMEMNON
The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, [140]
What is the remedy?

ULYSSES
The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns
The sinew and the forehand of our host,

Having his ear full of his airy fame,
Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent [145]
Lies mocking our designs. With him Patroclus,
Upon a lazy bed, the livelong day
Breaks scurril jests,

And with ridiculous and awkward action −
Which, slanderer, he imitation calls − [150]
He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon,

Thy topless deputation he puts on,
And, like a strutting player whose conceit
Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich
To hear the wooden dialogue and sound [155]
’Twixt his stretched footing and the scaffoldage,

Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming
He acts thy greatness in; and when he speaks,
’Tis like a chime a-mending, with terms unsquared

Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropped, [160]
Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff
The large Achilles, on his pressed bed lolling,
From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause,
Cries ‘Excellent! ’Tis Agamemnon just.

Now play me Nestor; hum, and stroke thy beard, [165]
As he being dressed to some oration.’