SCENE 1. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of ACHILLES
[Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS.]
I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night,
Which with my scimitar I'll cool to-morrow.
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.
Here comes Thersites.
How now, thou core of envy!
Thou crusty batch of nature, what's the news?
Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of
idiot worshippers, here's a letter for thee.
From whence, fragment?
Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.
Who keeps the tent now?
The surgeon's box or the patient's wound.
Well said, Adversity! and what needs these tricks?
Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk; thou
art said to be Achilles' male varlet.
Male varlet, you rogue! What's that?
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,
limekilns i' th' palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-
simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous
Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou
to curse thus?
Do I curse thee?
Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson indistinguishable cur,
No! Why art thou, then, exasperate, thou idle immaterial
skein of sleave silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye,
thou tassel of a prodigal's purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world
is pestered with such water-flies, diminutives of nature!