Patro. Nestor shall not escape so; he has told us what we are.  Come, what’s Nestor?

Thers. Why, he is an old wooden top, set up by father Time three hundred years ago, that hums to Agamemnon and Ulysses, and sleeps to all the world besides.

Achil. So let him sleep, for I’ll no more of him.—­O, my Patroclus, I but force a smile; Ajax has drawn the lot, and all the praise of Hector must be his.

Thers. I hope to see his praise upon his shoulders, in blows and bruises; his arms, thighs, and body, all full of fame, such fame as he gave me; and a wide hole at last full in his bosom, to let in day upon him, and discover the inside of a fool.

Patro. How he struts in expectation of honour! he knows not what he does.

Thers. Nay, that’s no wonder, for he never did.

Achil. Pr’ythee, say how he behaves himself?

Thers. O, you would be learning to practise against such another time?—­Why, he tosses up his head as he had built castles in the air; and he treads upward to them, stalks into the element; he surveys himself, as it were to look for Ajax:  he would be cried, for he has lost himself; nay, he knows nobody; I said, “Good-morrow, Ajax,” and he replied, “Thanks, Agamemnon.”

Achil. Thou shalt be my ambassador to him, Thersites.

Thers. No, I’ll put on his person; let Patroclus make his demands to me, and you shall see the pageant of Ajax.

Achil. To him, Patroclus; tell him I humbly desire the valiant Ajax to invite the noble Hector to my tent; and to procure safe conduct for him from our captain general Agamemnon.

Patro. Jove bless the mighty Ajax!

Thers. Humh!

Patro. I come from the great Achilles.

Thers. Ha!

Patro. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent.

Thers. Humh!

Patro. And to procure him safe conduct from Agamemnon.

Thers. Agamemnon?

Patro. Ay, my lord.

Thers. Ha!

Patro. What say you to it?

Thers. Farewell, with all my heart.

Patro. Your answer, sir?

Thers. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o’clock it will go one way or the other; however, he shall buy me dearly.  Fare you well, with all my heart.

Achil. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?

Thers. No; but he’s thus out of tune.  What music will be in him when Hector has knocked out his brains, I know not, nor I care not; but if emptiness makes noise, his head will make melody.

Achil. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred; And I myself see not the bottom on’t.

Thers. Would the fountain of his mind were clear, that he might see an ass in it!  I had rather be a tick in a sheep, than such a valiant ignorance. [Aside.