Ulys. Mighty Agamemnon!
Heart of our body, soul of our designs,
In whom the tempers, and the minds of all
Should be inclosed,—hear what Ulysses speaks.
Agam. You have free leave.
Ulys. Troy had been down ere this, and Hector's sword
Wanted a master, but for our disorders:
The observance due to rule has been neglected,
Observe how many Grecian tents stand void
Upon this plain, so many hollow factions:
For, when the general is not like the hive,
To whom the foragers should all repair,
What honey can our empty combs expect?
Or when supremacy of kings is shaken,
What can succeed? How could communities,
Or peaceful traffic from divided shores,
Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels,
But by degree, stand on their solid base?
Then every thing resolves to brutal force,
And headlong force is led by hoodwinked will.
For wild ambition, like a ravenous wolf,
Spurred on by will, and seconded by power,
Must make an universal prey of all,
And last devour itself.
Nest. Most prudently Ulysses has discovered
The malady, whereof our state is sick.
Diom. 'Tis truth he speaks; the general's disdained
By him one step beneath, he by the next;
That next by him below: So each degree
Spurns upward at superior eminence.
Thus our distempers are their sole support;
271 Troy in our weakness lives, not in her strength.
Agam. The nature of this sickness found, inform us
From whence it draws its birth?
Ulys. The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns
The chief of all our host,
Having his ears buzzed with his noisy fame,
Disdains thy sovereign charge, and in his tent
Lies, mocking our designs; with him Patroclus,
Upon a lazy bed, breaks scurril jests,
And with ridiculous and aukward action,
Which, slanderer, he imitation calls,
Mimics the Grecian chiefs.
Agam. As how, Ulysses?
Ulys. Even thee, the king of men, he does not spare,
(The monkey author) but thy greatness pageants,
And makes of it rehearsals: like a player,
Bellowing his passion till he break the spring,
And his racked voice jar to his audience;
So represents he thee, though more unlike
Than Vulcan is to Venus.
And at this fulsome stuff,—the wit of apes,—
The large Achilles, on his prest bed lolling,
From his deep chest roars out a loud applause,
Tickling his spleen, and laughing till he wheeze.
Nest. Nor are you spared, Ulysses; but, as you speak in council,
He hems ere he begins, then strokes his beard,
Casts down his looks, and winks with half an eye;
Has every action, cadence, motion, tone,
All of you but the sense.