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.
[Exit.]