Ulys. Is this a man, O Nestor, to be bought? 
Asia’s not price enough! bid the world for him. 
And shall this man, this Hermes, this Apollo,
Sit lag of Ajax’ table, almost minstrel,
And with his presence grace a brainless feast? 
Why they con sense from him, grow wits by rote,
And yet, by ill repeating, libel him,
Making his wit their nonsense:  nay, they scorn him;
Call him bought railer, mercenary tongue! 
Play him for sport at meals, and kick him off.

Thers. Yes, they can kick; my buttocks feel they can;
They have their asses tricks; but I’ll eat pebbles,
I’ll starve,—­’tis brave to starve, ’tis like a soldier,—­
Before I’ll feed those wit-starved rogues with sense. 
They shall eat dry, and choak for want of wit,
Ere they be moistened with one drop of mine. 
Ajax and Achilles! two mud-walls of fool,
That only differ in degrees of thickness.

Ulys. I’d be revenged of both.  When wine fumes high,
Set them to prate, to boast their brutal strength,
To vie their stupid courage, till they quarrel,
And play at hard head with their empty skulls.

Thers. Yes; they shall butt and kick, and all the while I’ll think they kick for me; they shall fell timber On both sides, and then logwood will be cheap.

Nest. And Agamemnon—­

Thers. Pox of Agamemnon! 
Cannot I do a mischief for myself,
But he must thank me for’t?

Ulys. to Nest. Away; our work is done. [Exeunt ULYS. and NEST.

Thers. This Agamemnon is a king of clouts, A chip in porridge,—­

  Enter AJAX.

Ajax. Thersites.

Thers. Set up to frighten daws from cherry-trees,—­

Ajax. Dog!

Thers. A standard to march under.

Ajax. Thou bitch-wolf! can’st thou not hear? feel then.
          
                                             [Strikes him.

Thers. The plague of Greece, and Helen’s pox light on thee, Thou mongrel mastiff, thou beef-witted lord!

Ajax. Speak then, thou mouldy leaven of the camp; Speak, or I’ll beat thee into handsomeness.

Thers. I shall sooner rail thee into wit; thou canst kick, canst thou?  A red murrain on thy jades tricks!

Ajax. Tell me the proclamation.

Thers. Thou art proclaimed a fool, I think.

Ajax. You whorson cur, take that. [Strikes him.

Thers. Thou scurvy valiant ass!

Ajax. Thou slave!

Thers. Thou lord!—­Ay, do, do,—­would my buttocks were iron, for thy sake!

  Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS.

Achil. Why, how now, Ajax! wherefore do you this?  How now, Thersites, what’s the matter, man?