THERSITES.
Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, to—
AJAX.
I shall cut out your tongue.
THERSITES.
’Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.
PATROCLUS.
No more words, Thersites; peace!
THERSITES.
I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brach bids me, shall I?
ACHILLES.
There’s for you, Patroclus.
THERSITES.
I will see you hang’d like clotpoles ere I come any more to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.
[Exit.]
PATROCLUS.
A good riddance.
ACHILLES.
Marry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through all our host,
That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,
Will with a trumpet ’twixt our tents and Troy,
Tomorrow morning, call some knight to arms
That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare
Maintain I know not what; ’tis trash. Farewell.