THERSITES.
Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus?
AJAX.
The proclamation!
THERSITES.
Thou art proclaim’d fool, I think.
AJAX.
Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers itch.
THERSITES.
I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another.
AJAX.
I say, the proclamation.
THERSITES.
Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty—ay, that thou bark’st at him.
AJAX.
Mistress Thersites!
THERSITES.
Thou shouldst strike him.
AJAX.
Cobloaf!