Alarm within.  Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, MENELAUS, Soldiers.

Agam. Thus far the promise of the day is fair. 
AEneas rather loses ground than gains. 
I saw him over-laboured, taking breath,
And leaning on his spear, behold our trenches,
Like a fierce lion looking up to toils,
Which yet he durst not leap.

Ulys. And therefore distant death does all the work;
The flights of whistling darts make brown the sky,
Whose clashing points strike fire, and gild the dusk;
Those, that reach home, from neither host are vain,
So thick the prease; so lusty are their arms,
That death seemed never sent with better will. 
Nor was with less concernment entertained.

  Enter NESTOR.

Agam. Now, Nestor, what’s the news?

Nest. I have descried
A cloud of dust, that mounts in pillars upwards,
Expanding as it travels to our camp;
And from the midst I heard a bursting shout,
That rent the heaven; as if all Troy were swarmed. 
And on the wing this way.

Menel. Let them come, let them come.

Agam. Where’s great Achilles?

Ulys. Think not on Achilles, Till Hector drag him from his tent to fight; Which sure he will, for I have laid the train.

Nest. But young Patroclus leads his Myrmidons, And in their front, even in the face of Hector, Resolves to dare the Trojans.

Agam. Haste, Ulysses, bid Ajax issue forth and second him.

Ulys. Oh noble general, let it not be so. 
Oppose not rage, while rage is in its force,
But give it way awhile, and let it waste. 
The rising deluge is not stopt with dams;
Those it o’erbears, and drowns the hopes of harvest;
But, wisely managed, its divided strength
Is sluiced in channels, and securely drained. 
First, let small parties dally with their fury;
But when their force is spent and unsupplied,
The residue with mounds may be restrained,
And dry-shod we may pass the naked ford.

  Enter THERSITES.

Thers. Ho, ho, ho!

Menel. Why dost thou laugh, unseasonable fool?

Thers. Why, thou fool in season, cannot a man laugh, but thou thinkest he makes horns at thee?  Thou prince of the herd, what hast thou to do with laughing?  ’Tis the prerogative of a man, to laugh.  Thou risibility without reason, thou subject of laughter, thou fool royal!

Ulys. But tell us the occasion of thy mirth?

Thers. Now a man asks me, I care not if I answer to my own kind.—­Why, the enemies are broken into our trenches; fools like Menelaus fall by thousands yet not a human soul departs on either side.  Troilus and Ajax have almost beaten one another’s heads off, but are both immortal for want of brains.  Patroclus has killed Sarpedon, and Hector Patroclus, so there is a towardly springing fop gone off; he might have made a prince one day, but now he’s nipt in the very bud and promise of a most prodigious coxcomb.