THERSITES.
Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot worshippers, here’s a letter for thee.
ACHILLES.
From whence, fragment?
THERSITES.
Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.
PATROCLUS.
Who keeps the tent now?
THERSITES.
The surgeon’s box or the patient’s wound.
PATROCLUS.
Well said, adversity! And what needs these tricks?
THERSITES.
Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk; thou art said to be Achilles’ male varlet.
PATROCLUS.
Male varlet, you rogue! What’s that?
THERSITES.
Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of the south, the guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs, loads o’ gravel in the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas, lime-kilns i’ th’ palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous discoveries!
PATROCLUS.
Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus?