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Enter AJAX and THERSITES
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Thersites!
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Agamemnon, how if he had boils? full, all over,
generally?
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Thersites!
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And those boils did run? say so: did not the
general run then? were not that a botchy core?
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Dog!
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Then would come some matter from him; I see none now.
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Thou bitch-wolf's son, canst thou not hear?
Beating him
Feel, then.
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The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel
beef-witted lord!
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Speak then, thou vinewedst leaven, speak: I will
beat thee into handsomeness.
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I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness: but,
I think, thy horse will sooner con an oration than
thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike,
canst thou? a red murrain o' thy jade's tricks!
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Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.
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Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus?
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The proclamation!
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Thou art proclaimed a fool, I think.
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Do not, porpentine, do not: my fingers itch.
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I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had
the scratching of thee; I would make thee the
loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in
the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another.
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I say, the proclamation!
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Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles,
and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as
Cerberus is at Proserpine's beauty, ay, that thou
barkest at him.
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Mistress Thersites!
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Thou shouldest strike him.
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Cobloaf!
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He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a
sailor breaks a biscuit.
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Beating him You whoreson cur!
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Do, do.
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Thou stool for a witch!
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Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no
more brain than I have in mine elbows; an assinego
may tutor thee: thou scurvy-valiant ass! thou art
here but to thrash Trojans; and thou art bought and
sold among those of any wit, like a barbarian slave.
If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel, and
tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no
bowels, thou!
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You dog!
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You scurvy lord!
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Beating him You cur!
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Mars his idiot! do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.
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Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS
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Why, how now, Ajax! wherefore do you thus? How now,
Thersites! what's the matter, man?
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You see him there, do you?
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Ay; what's the matter?
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Nay, look upon him.
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So I do: what's the matter?
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Nay, but regard him well.
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'Well!' why, I do so.
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But yet you look not well upon him; for whosoever you
take him to be, he is Ajax.
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I know that, fool.
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Ay, but that fool knows not himself.
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Therefore I beat thee.
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Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! his
evasions have ears thus long. I have bobbed his
brain more than he has beat my bones: I will buy
nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not
worth the nineth part of a sparrow. This lord,
Achilles, Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly and
his guts in his head, I'll tell you what I say of
him.
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What?
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I say, this Ajax--
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Ajax offers to beat him
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Nay, good Ajax.
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Has not so much wit--
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Nay, I must hold you.
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As will stop the eye of Helen's needle, for whom he
comes to fight.
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Peace, fool!
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I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will
not: he there: that he: look you there.
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O thou damned cur! I shall--
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Will you set your wit to a fool's?
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No, I warrant you; for a fools will shame it.
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Good words, Thersites.
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What's the quarrel?
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I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenor of the
proclamation, and he rails upon me.
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I serve thee not.
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Well, go to, go to.
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I serve here voluntarily.
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Your last service was sufferance, 'twas not
voluntary: no man is beaten voluntary: Ajax was
here the voluntary, and you as under an impress.
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E'en so; a great deal of your wit, too, lies in your
sinews, or else there be liars. Hector have a great
catch, if he knock out either of your brains: a'
were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel.
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What, with me too, Thersites?
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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 wars.
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What, what?
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Yes, good sooth: to, Achilles! to, Ajax! to!
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I shall cut out your tongue.
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'Tis no matter! I shall speak as much as thou
afterwards.
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No more words, Thersites; peace!
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I will hold my peace when Achilles' brach bids me, shall I?
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There's for you, Patroclus.
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I will see you hanged, like clotpoles, ere I come
any more to your tents: I will keep where there is
wit stirring and leave the faction of fools.
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Exit
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A good riddance.
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Marry, this, sir, is proclaim'd through all our host:
That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,
Will with a trumpet 'twixt our tents and Troy
To-morrow morning call some knight to arms
That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare
Maintain--I know not what: 'tis trash. Farewell.
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Farewell. Who shall answer him?
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I know not: 'tis put to lottery; otherwise
He knew his man.
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O, meaning you. I will go learn more of it.
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Exeunt