Thers. Agamemnon?
Patro. Ay, my lord.
Thers. Ha!
Patro. What say you to it?
Thers. Farewell, with all my heart.
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.