Patr. They pass by strangely: they were us'd to bend, To send their smiles before them to Achilles; To come as humbly, as they us'd to creep Achil. What, am I poor of late? 'Tis certain, Greatness, once fallen out with fortune. Hath any honour; but honour for those honours At ample point all that I did possess, Save these men's looks; who do, methinks, find out I'll interrupt his reading.— How now, Ulysses? Ulyss. Now, great Thetis' son? A strange fellow here Achil. What are you reading? Ulyss. Writes me, That man-how dearly ever parted, How much in having, or without, or in,— Achil. This is not strange, Ulysses. Till it hath travell'd, and is marry'd there Ulyss. I do not strain at the position, Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves→ That no man is the lord of any thing, (Though in and of him there be much consisting,) Till he communicate his parts to others: Nor doth he of himself know them for aught Till he behold them form'd in the applause Where they are extended; which, like an arch, reverberates The voice again; or like a gate of steel Fronting the sun, receives and renders back His figure and his heat. I was much wrapt in this; And apprehended here immediately The unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there! a very horse; That has he knows not what. there are, Nature, what things Most abject in regard, and dear in use! What things again most dear in the esteem, And poor in worth! Now shall we see to-morrow, 29 How some men creep in skittish fortune's hall, Achil. I do believe it: for they pass'd by me, A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes : Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright: To have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; That one by one pursue: If you give way, Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, O'er-run and trampled on: Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours: For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms out-stretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps-in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,— That all, with one consent, praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past; And give to dust, that is a little gilt, More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object: That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye, Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, If thou would'st not entomb thyself alive, Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, The reasons are more potent and heroical: 'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love With one of Priam's daughters. Achil. Uyss. Is that a wonder? Ha! known? The providence that's in a watchful state, Knows almost every grain of Plutus' gold; Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps; "Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods, Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. There is a mystery (with whom relation Durst never meddle) in the soul of state; |