Lies in his Ham-string, and doth thinke it rich
To heare the woodden Dialogue and sound
'Twixt his stretcht footing, and the Scaffolage,
Such to be pittied, and ore-rested seeming
He acts thy Greatnesse in: and when he speakes,
'Tis like a Chime a mending. With tearmes unsquar'd,
Which from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropt,
Would seemes Hyperboles. At this fusty stuffe,
The large Achilles (on his prest-bed lolling)
From his deepe Chest, laughes out a lowd applause,
Cries excellent, 'tis Agamemnon just.
Now play me Nestor; hum, and stroke thy Beard.
As he, being drest to some Oration:
That's done, as neere as the extreamest ends
Of paralels; as like, as Vulcan and his wife,
Yet god Achilles still cries excellent,
'Tis Nestor right. Now play him (me) Patroclus,
Arming to answer in a night-Alarme,
And then (forsooth) the faint defects of Age
Must be the Scene of myrth, to cough, and spit,
And with a palsie fumbling on his Gorget,
Shake in and out the Rivet: and at this sport
Sir Valour dies; cries, O enough Patroclus,
Or, give me ribs of Steele, I shall split all
In pleasure of my Spleene. And in this fashion,
All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,
Severals and generals of grace exact,
Atchievments, plots, orders, preventions,
Excitements to the field, or speech for truce,
Successe or losse, what is, or is not, serves
As stuffe for these two, to make paradoxes.
Nest. And in the imitation of these twaine,
Who (as Ulysses sayes) Opinion crownes
With an Imperiall voyce, many are infect :
Ajax is growne selfe-will'd, and beares his head
In such a reyne, in full as proud a place
As broad Achilles, and keepes his Tent like him
Makes factious Feasts, railes on our state of Warre
Bold as an Oracle, and sets Thersites
A slave, whose Gall coines Slanders like a Mint,
To match us in comparisons with durt,
To weaken and discredit our exposure,
How ranke soever rounded in with danger.
Ulys. They taxe our policy, and call it Cowardice,
Count Wisedome as no member of the Warre,
Fore-stall prescience, and esteeme no acte
But that of hand: The still and mentall parts,
That do contrive how many hands shall strike
When fitnesse call them on, and know by measure
Of their observant toyle, the Enemies waight,
Why this hath not a fingers dignity:
They call this Bed-worke, Mapp'ry, Closset-Warre:
So that the Ramme that batters downe the wall,
For the great swing and rudenesse of his poize,
They place before his hand that made the Engine,
Or those that with the finenesse of their soules,
By Reason guide his execution.
Nest. Let this be granted, and Achilles horse
Makes many Thetis sonnes.
Aga. What Trumpet? Looke Menelaus.
Men. From Troy.
Aga. What would you 'fore our Tent?
Men. Is this great Agamemnons Tent, I pray you?
Ene. May one that is a Herald, and a Prince,
Do a faire message to his Kingly eares ?
Aga. With surety stronger then Achilles arme, 'Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voyce
Call Agamemnon Head and Generall.
Ene. Faire leave, and large security. How may A stranger to those most Imperial lookes,
Know them from eyes of other Mortals?
Ene. I: I aske, that I might waken reverence,
And on the cheeke be ready with a blush
Modest as morning, when she coldly eyes
The youthfull Phoebus :
Which is that God in office guiding men?
Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon?
Aga. This Troyan scornes us, or the men of Troy
Are ceremonious Courtiers.
Ene. Courtiers as free, as debonnaire; unarm'd, As bending Angels: that's their Fame, in peace: But when they would seeme Souldiers, they have galles, Good armes, strong joynts, true swords, & Joves accord, Nothing so full of heart. But peace Æneas,
Peace Troyan, lay thy finger on thy lips,
The worthinesse of praise distaines his worth:
If that he prais'd himselfe, bring the praise forth.
But what the repining enemy commends,
That breath Fame blowes, that praise sole pure transcends.
Aga. Sir, you of Troy, call you your selfe Æneas?
Ene. I Greeke, that is my name.
Aga. What's your affayre I pray you?
Ene. Sir pardon, 'tis for Agamemnons eares,
Aga. He heares nought privatly
That comes from Troy.
Ene. Nor I from Troy come not to whisper him.
I bring a Trumpet to awake his eare,
To set his sence on the attentive bent,
And then to speake.
Aga. Speake frankely as the winde,
It is not Agamemnons sleeping houre;
That thou shalt know Troyan he is awake,
He tels thee so himselfe.
Send thy Brasse voyce through all these lazie Tents,
And every Greeke of mettle, let him know,
What Troy meanes fairely, shall be spoke alowd
We have great Agamemnon heere in Troy,
A Prince calld Hedor, Priam is his Father:
Who in this dull and long-continew'd Truce.
Is rusty growne. He bad me take a Trumpet,
And to this purpose speake: Kings, Princes, Lords,
If there be one among'st the fayr'st of Greece,
That holds his Honor higher then his ease,
That seekes his praise, more then he feares his perill,
That knowes his Valour, and knowes not his feare,
That loves his Mistris more then in confession,
(With Truant vowes to her owne lips he loves)
And dare avow her Beauty, and her Worth,
In other armes then hers: to him this Challenge.
Hedor, in view of Troyans, and of Greekes,
Shall make it good, or do his best to do it.
He hath a Lady, wiser, fairer, truer,
Then ever Greeke did compasse in his armes,
And will to morrow with his Trumpet call,
Midway betweene your Tents, and walles of Troy,
To rowze a Grecian that is true in love.
If any come, Hector shal honour him:
If none, hee'l say in Troy when he retyres,
The Grecian Dames are sun-burnt, and not worth
The splinter of a Lance: Even so much.
Aga. This shall be told our Lovers Lord Æneas,
If none of them have soule in such a kinde,
We left them all at home: But we are Souldiers,
And
may that Souldier a meere recreant prove,
That meanes not, hath not, or is not in love:
If then one is, or hath, or meanes to be,
That one meets Hector; if none else, Ile be he.
Nest. Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man
When Hectors Grandsire suckt: he is old now,
But if there be not in our Grecian mould,
One Noble man, that hath one spark of fire
To answer for his Love; tell him from me,
Ile hide my Silver beard in a Gold Beaver,
And in my Vantbrace put this wither'd brawne,
And meeting him, wil tell him, that my Lady
Was fayrer then his Grandam, and as chaste
As may be in the world: his youth in flood,
Ile pawne this truth with my three drops of blood.
Ene. Now heavens forbid such scarsitie of youth.
Ulys. Amen.
Aga. Faire Lord Æneas,
Let me touch your hand :
To our Pavillion shal I leade you first:
Achilles shall have word of this intent,
So shall each Lord of Greece from Tent to Tent:
Your selfe shall Feast with us before you goe,
And finde the welcome of a Noble Foe.
Manet Ulysses, and Nestor.
Nest. What sayes Ulysses?
Ulys. I have a young conception in my braine, Be you my time to bring it to some shape.
Nest. What is't?
Ulysses. This 'tis :
Blunt wedges rive hard knots: the seeded Pride
That hath to this maturity blowne up
In ranke Achilles, must or now be cropt,
Or shedding breed a Nursery of like evil
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