[Act 2, Scene 1]
Enter Aiax, and
Agamemnon, how if he had Biles (ful) all ouer
And those Byles did runne, say so; did not the
General run, were
not that a botchy core?
Then there would come some matter from him:
I see none now.
Thou Bitch‑Wolfes‑Sonne, canst
The plague of Greece vpon thee thou Mungrel
Speake then you whinid'st leauen speake, I will
beate thee into
I shal sooner rayle thee into wit and holinesse:
but I thinke
thy Horse wil sooner con an Oration, then
learn a prayer without booke: Thou canst strike, canst
thou? A red Murren o'th thy Iades trickes.
Toads stoole, learne me the Proclamation.
Doest thou thinke I haue no sence thou strik'st
Thou art proclaim'd a foole, I thinke.
Do not Porpentine, do not; my fingers itch.
I would thou didst itch from head to foot, and
I had the
scratching of thee, I would make thee the loth
scab in Greece.
I say the Proclamation.
Thou grumblest & railest euery houre on
and thou art as ful of enuy at his
Proserpina's beauty. I, that thou barkst at
Thou should'st strike him
He would pun thee into shiuers with his fist, as
breakes a bisket.
You horson Curre.
Thou stoole for a Witch.
I, do, do, thou sodden‑witted Lord: thou hast
braine then I haue in mine elbows: An Asinico
may tutor thee.
Thou scuruy valiant Asse, thou art heere
but to thresh Troyans,
and thou art bought and solde a
mong those of any wit,
like a Barbarian slaue. If thou vfe
to beat me, I wil begin at
thy heele and tel what thou art
by inches thou thing of no
You scuruy Lord.
Enter Achilles and
Why how now
Mars his Ideot: do rudenes, do Camell, do,
Aiax? wherefore do you this?
Thersites? what's the matter man?
You see him there, do you?
I, what's the matter.
Nay looke vpon him.
So I do: what's the matter?
Nay but regard him well.
Well, why I do so.
But yet you looke not well vpon him: for who
some euer you take
him to be, he is
I know that foole.
I, but that foole knowes not himselfe.
Therefore I beate thee.
Lo, lo, lo, lo, what
modicumes of wit he
euasions haue eares thus long. I haue bobb'd his
more then he has beate my bones: I will buy nine
rowes for a peny, and his
Piamater is not worth the ninth
part of a Sparrow.
This Lord (
Aiax who wears
his wit in his belly, and his guttes
in his head, Ile tell you
what I say of him.
I say this
Has not so much wit.
Nay, 1 must hold you.
As will stop the eye of
Helens Needle, for
he comes to fight.
I would haue peace and quietnes, but the foole
will not: he
there, that he, looke you there.
O thou damn'd Curre, I shall⸺
Will you set your wit to a Fooles.
No I warrant you, for a fooles will shame it.
What's the quarrell?
I bad thee vile Owle, goe learne me the tenure
Proclamation, and he sayles vpon me.
I serue thee not.
Well, go too, go too.
I serue heere voluntary.
Your last seruice was sufferance, 'twas not vo
no man is beaten voluntary:
Aiax was heere
voluntary, and you as vnder an Impresse.
E'neso, a great deale of your wit too lies in your
else there be Liars,
Hector shall haue a
catch, if he knocke out either of your braines, he were
good cracke a fustie nut with no kernell.
What with me to
Vlysses, and old
Nestor, whose Wit was
mouldy ere their Grandsires had
nails on their toes, yoke
you like draft
make you plough vp the warre.
Yes good sooth, to
I shall cut out your tongue.
'Tis no matter, I shall speake as much as thou
No more words
I will hold my peace when
Achilles Brooch bids
me, shall I?
There's for you
I wil see you hang'd like Clotpoles ere I come
any more to your
Tents; I will keepe where there is wit
stirring, and leaue the
faction of fooles.
A good riddance.
Marry this Sir is proclaim'd through al our host,
Hector by the fift houre of the
Will with a Trumpet,'twixt our Tents and Troy
To morrow morning call some Knight to Armes,
That hath a stomacke, and such a one that dare
Maintaine I know not what: 'tis trash. Farewell.
Farewell? who shall answer him?
I know not,'tis put to Lottry: otherwise
He knew his man.
O meaning you, I wil go learne more of it.