Thers. Make that demand to heaven; it suffices me, thou art one.
Acini. Ha, ha, ha! O give me ribs of steel, or I shall split with pleasure.—Now play me Nestor at a night alarm: mimick him rarely; make him cough and spit, and fumble with his gorget, and shake the rivets with his palsy hand, in and out, in and out; gad, that's exceeding foolish.
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 303 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."