Something not worth in me such rich beholding How now, Ulysses? Ulyss. Now, great Thetis' son? Achil. What are you reading? Ulyss. A strange fellow here Writes me, That man-how dearly ever parted*, How much in having, or without, or in,Cannot make boast to have that which he hath, Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection; As when his virtues shining upon others Heat them, and they retort that heat again To the first giver. Achil. This is not strange, Ulysses. The beauty that is borne here in the face Till it hath travell'd, and is married there (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 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 * Excellently endowed. + Detail of argument. The unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there! a very horse; That has he knows not what. Nature, what things there are, Most abject in regard, and dear in use! What things again most dear in the esteem, How some men creep in skittish fortune's hall, Achil. I do believe it: for they pass'd by me, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon Keeps honour bright: To have done, is to hang In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, O'er-run and trampled on: Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours: For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms out stretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps-in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,- The present eye praises the present object: If thou would'st not entomb thyself alive, Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, The reasons are more potent and heroical: 'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love New-fashioned toys. + The descent of the deities to combat on either side. With one of Priam's daughters*. Achil. Ulyss. Is that a wonder? Ha! known? The providence that's in a watchful state, But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, Patr. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov'd you : A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man In time of action. I stand condemn'd for this; Be shook to air. Achil. Shall Ajax fight with Hector? Patr. Ay; and, perhaps, receive much honour by him. Achil. I see, my reputation is at stake; My fame is shrewdly gor❜d. Patr. O, then beware; Those wounds heal ill, that men do give themselves: Seals a commission to a blank of danger; Achil. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus: To see us here unarm'd: I have a woman's longing, To see great Hector in his weeds of peace; Even to my full of view. A labour sav'd! Enter Thersites. Ther. A wonder! Achil. What? Ther. Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for himself. Achil. How so? Ther. He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector; and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling, that he raves in saying nothing. Achil. How can that be? Ther. Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock, a stride and a stand: ruminates, like an hostess, that hath no arithmetick but her brain to set down her reckoning: bites his lip with a politick regard, as who should say-there were wit in this head, an 'twould out; and so there is; but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man's undone for ever; for if Hector break not his neck i'the combat, he'll break it himself in vain-glory. He knows not me: I said, Good-morrow, Ajax; and he replies, Thanks, Agamemnon. What think you of this man, that takes |