[Exit.]
ULYSSES.
We saw him at the opening of his tent.
He is not sick.
AJAX.
Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart. You may call it melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my head, ’tis pride. But why, why? Let him show us a cause. A word, my lord.
[Takes Agamemnon aside.]
NESTOR.
What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?
ULYSSES.
Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.
NESTOR.
Who, Thersites?
ULYSSES.
He.
NESTOR.
Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument.
ULYSSES.
No; you see he is his argument that has his argument, Achilles.