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.
AJAX.
Farewell. Who shall answer him?
ACHILLES.
I know not; ’tis put to lott’ry, otherwise,
He knew his man.
AJAX.
O, meaning you? I will go learn more of it.