[Exit.]
THERSITES.
Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such knavery. All the argument is a whore and a cuckold—a good quarrel to draw emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now the dry serpigo on the subject, and war and lechery confound all!
[Exit.]
AGAMEMNON.
Where is Achilles?
PATROCLUS.
Within his tent; but ill-dispos’d, my lord.
AGAMEMNON.
Let it be known to him that we are here.
He shent our messengers; and we lay by
Our appertainings, visiting of him.
Let him be told so; lest, perchance, he think
We dare not move the question of our place
Or know not what we are.
PATROCLUS.
I shall say so to him.
[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.