Ulys. What glory our Achilles gains from Hector,
Were he not proud, we all should share with him: 
But he already is too insolent: 
And we had better parch in Afric sun,
Than in his pride, should he ’scape Hector fair. 
But grant he should be foiled;
Why then our common reputation suffers
In that of our best man.  No, make a lottery;
And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw
The chance to fight with Hector:  among ourselves,
Give him allowance as the braver man;
For that will physic the great Myrmidon,
Who swells with loud applause; and make him fall
His crest, if brainless Ajax come safe off: 
If not, we yet preserve a fair opinion,
That we have better men.

Nest. Now I begin to relish thy advice: 
Come, let us go to Agamemnon strait,
To inform him of our project.

Ulys. ’Tis not ripe. 
The skilful surgeon will not lance a sore,
Till nature has digested and prepared
The growing humours to her healing purpose;
Else must he often grieve the patient’s sense,
When one incision, once well-timed, would serve. 
Are not Achilles and dull Ajax friends?

Nest. As much as fools can be.

Ulys. That knot of friendship first must be untied,
Ere we can reach our ends; for, while they love each other,
Both hating us, will draw too strong a bias,
And all the camp will lean that way they draw;
For brutal courage is the soldier’s idol: 
So, if one prove contemptuous, backed by t’other,
’Twill give the law to cool and sober sense,
And place the power of war in madmen’s hands.

Nest. Now I conceive you; were they once divided,
And one of them made ours, that one would check
The other’s towering growth, and keep both low,
As instruments, and not as lords of war. 
And this must be by secret coals of envy
Blown in their breast; comparisons of worth;
Great actions weighed of each; and each the best,
As we shall give him voice.

Ulys. Here comes Thersites,

  Enter THERSITES.

Who feeds on Ajax, yet loves him not, because he cannot love;
But, as a species differing from mankind,
Hates all he sees, and rails at all he knows;
But hates them most from whom he most receives,
Disdaining that his lot should be so low,
That he should want the kindness which he takes.

Nest. There’s none so fit an engine:—­Save ye, Thersites.

Ulys. Hail, noble Grecian! thou relief of toils,
Soul of our mirth, and joy of sullen war,
In whose converse our winter nights are short,
And summer days not tedious.

Thers. Hang you both.

Nest. How, hang us both!

Thers. But hang thee first, thou very reverend fool! 
Thou sapless oak, that liv’st by wanting thought,
And now, in thy three hundredth year, repin’st
Thou shouldst be felled:  hanging’s a civil death,
The death of men; thou canst not hang; thy trunk
Is only fit for gallows to hang others.