THERSITES.
If tomorrow be a fair day, by eleven of the clock it will go one way or other. Howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me.
PATROCLUS.
Your answer, sir.
THERSITES.
Fare ye well, with all my heart.
ACHILLES.
Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?
THERSITES.
No, but out of tune thus. What music will be in him when Hector has knock’d out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none; unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on.
ACHILLES.
Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.
THERSITES.
Let me bear another to his horse; for that’s the more capable creature.
ACHILLES.
My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr’d;
And I myself see not the bottom of it.
[Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus.]
THERSITES.
Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it. I had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a valiant ignorance.