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The bearer knows not, but commends itself

       To others’ eyes; nor doth the eye itself—

       That most pure spirit of sense—behold itself,

       Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed

       Salutes each other with each other’s form;

       For speculation turns not to itself

       Till it hath travell’d, and is mirror’d there

       Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.

      ULYSSES.

       I do not strain at the position—

       It is familiar—but at the author’s drift;

       Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves

       That no man is the lord of anything,

       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 formed in th’ applause

       Where th’ are extended; who, like an arch, reverb’rate

       The voice again; or, like a gate of steel

       Fronting the sun, receives and renders back

       His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this;

       And apprehended here immediately

       Th’ unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there!

       A very horse that has he knows not what!

       Nature, what things there are

       Most abject in regard and dear in use!

       What things again most dear in the esteem

       And poor in worth! Now shall we see tomorrow—

       An act that very chance doth throw upon him—

       Ajax renown’d. O heavens, what some men do,

       While some men leave to do!

       How some men creep in skittish Fortune’s-hall,

       Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes!

       How one man eats into another’s pride,

       While pride is fasting in his wantonness!

       To see these Grecian lords!—why, even already

       They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder,

       As if his foot were on brave Hector’s breast,

       And great Troy shrinking.

      ACHILLES.

       I do believe it; for they pass’d by me

       As misers do by beggars-neither gave to me

       Good word nor look. What, are my deeds forgot?

      ULYSSES.

       Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,

       Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,

       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 mock’ry. Take the instant way;

       For honour travels in a strait so narrow—

       Where one but goes abreast. Keep then the path,

       For emulation hath a thousand sons

       That one by one pursue; if you give way,

       Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,

       Like to an ent’red tide they all rush by

       And leave you hindmost;

       Or, like a gallant horse fall’n in first rank,

       Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,

       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 th’ hand;

       And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly,

       Grasps in the corner. The 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,

       Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all

       To envious and calumniating Time.

       One touch of nature makes the whole world kin—

       That all with one consent praise newborn 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.

       Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,

       That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax,

       Since things in motion sooner catch the eye

       Than what stirs not. The cry went once on thee,

       And still it might, and yet it may again,

       If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive

       And case thy reputation in thy tent,

       Whose glorious deeds but in these fields of late

       Made emulous missions ‘mongst the gods themselves,

       And drave great Mars to faction.

      ACHILLES.

       Of this my privacy

       I have strong reasons.

      ULYSSES.

       But ‘gainst your privacy

       The reasons are more potent and heroical.

       ‘Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love

       With one of Priam’s daughters.

      ACHILLES.

       Ha! known!

      ULYSSES.

       Is that a wonder?

       The providence that’s in a watchful state

       Knows almost every grain of Plutus’ gold;

       Finds bottom in th’ uncomprehensive deeps;

       Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods,

       Do thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles.

       There is a mystery—with whom relation

       Durst never meddle—in the soul of state,

       Which hath an operation more divine

       Than breath or pen can give expressure to.

       All the commerce that you have had with Troy

       As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord;

       And better would it fit Achilles much

       To throw down Hector than Polyxena.

       But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home,

       When fame shall in our island sound her trump,

       And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing

       ‘Great Hector’s sister did Achilles

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