Nest. I'll hear no more of him, his poison works;
What, curse me for my age!
Ulys. Hold, you mistake him, Nestor; 'tis his custom:
What malice is there in a mirthful scene?
'Tis but a keen-edged sword, spread o'er with balm,
To heal the wound it makes.
Thers. Thou beg'st a curse?
May'st thou quit scores then, and be hanged on Nestor,
Who hangs on thee! thou lead'st him by the nose;
Thou play'st him like a puppet; speak'st within him;
And when thou hast contrived some dark design,
To lose a thousand Greeks, make dogs-meat of us,
Thou lay'st thy cuckoo's egg within his nest,
And mak'st him hatch it; teachest his remembrance
296 To lie, and say, the like of it was practised
Two hundred years ago; thou bring'st the brain,
And he brings only beard to vouch thy plots.
Nest. I'm no man's fool.
Thers. Then be thy own, that's worse.
Nest. He'll rail all day.
Ulys. Then we shall learn all day.
Who forms the body to a graceful carriage,
Must imitate our aukward motions first;
The same prescription does the wise Thersites
Apply, to mend our minds. The same he uses
To Ajax, to Achilles, to the rest;
His satires are the physic of the camp.
Thers. Would they were poison to't, ratsbane and hemlock!
Nothing else can mend you, and those two brawny fools.
Ulys. He hits 'em right;
Are they not such, my Nestor?
Thers. Dolt-heads, asses,
And beasts of burden; Ajax and Achilles!
The pillars, no, the porters of the war.
Hard-headed rogues! engines, mere wooden engines
Pushed on to do your work.