Page 2801 - Shakespeare - Vol. 2
P. 2801
THERSITES
There’s Ulysses and old Nestor − whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires
had nails on their toes − yoke you like draught-oxen, and make you plough
up the war. [105]
ACHILLES
What? What?
THERSITES
Yes, good sooth; to, Achilles! To, Ajax, to!
AJAX
I shall cut out your tongue.
THERSITES
’Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou afterwards. [110]
PATROCLUS
No more words, Thersites; peace!
THERSITES
I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brooch bids me, shall I?
ACHILLES
There’s for you, Patroclus.
THERSITES
I will see you hanged like clotpolls ere I come [115] any more to your tents; I
will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.
Exit.
PATROCLUS
A good riddance.
ACHILLES
Marry, this, sir, is proclaimed through all our host:
That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun, [120]
