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How now, thou core of envy?

How now, thou core of envy?
Thou crusty botch 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.
 Achilles takes the letter and moves aside to read it.

Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough
and one that loves quails, but he has not so
much brain as earwax.

Who keeps the tent now?
The surgeon’s box or the patient’s wound.
Well said, adversity. And what need 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, whissing
lungs, bladders full of impostume, sciaticas,
limekilns i’ th’ palm, incurable bone-ache, and the
rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take
again such preposterous discoveries.
Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou,
what means thou to curse thus?
Do I curse thee?
Why, no, you ruinous butt, you whoreson
indistinguishable cur, no.
No? Why art thou then exasperate, thou idle
immaterial skein of sleave-silk, thou green sarsenet
flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal’s purse,
thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered with such
waterflies, diminutives of nature!
Out, gall!
Finch egg!
Achilles, coming forward
My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite
From my great purpose in tomorrow’s battle.
Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba,
A token from her daughter, my fair love,
Both taxing me and gaging me to keep
An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it.
Fall, Greeks; fail, fame; honor, or go or stay;
My major vow lies here; this I’ll obey.
Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent.
This night in banqueting must all be spent.
Away, Patroclus. He exits with Patroclus.
With too much blood and too little brain,
these two may run mad; but if with too much brain
and too little blood they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen.
Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough
and one that loves quails, but he has not so much
brain as earwax. And the goodly transformation
of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull—the primitive
statue and oblique memorial of cuckolds, a
thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his
brother’s leg—to what form but that he is should
wit larded with malice and malice forced with
wit turn him to? To an ass were nothing; he is both
ass and ox. To an ox were nothing; he is both ox
and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a
toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without
a roe, I would not care; but to be Menelaus! I
would conspire against destiny. Ask me not what I
would be, if I were not Thersites, for I care not to be
the louse of a lazar so I were not Menelaus.

Act 5
Scene 1
Line 5

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