TROILUS & CRESSIDA. William Shakespeare

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       The love that lean’d on them as slippery too,

       Doth one pluck down another, and together

       Die in the fall. But ‘tis not so with me:

       Fortune and I are friends; I do enjoy

       At ample point all that I did possess

       Save these men’s looks; who do, methinks, find out

       Something not worth in me such rich beholding

       As they have often given. Here is Ulysses.

       I’ll interrupt his reading.

       How now, Ulysses!

       ULYSSES.

       Now, great Thetis’ son!

       ACHILLES.

       What are you reading?

       ULYSSES.

       A strange fellow here

       Writes me that man—how dearly ever parted,

       How much in having, or without or in—

       Cannot make boast to have that which he hath,

       Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection;

       As when his virtues shining upon others

       Heat them, and they retort that heat again

       To the first giver.

       ACHILLES.

       This is not strange, Ulysses.

       The beauty that is borne here in the face

       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;

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