ULYSSES
Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, And the great Hector's sword had lack'd a master, But for these
instances. The specialty of rule hath been neglected: And, look, how many Grecian tents do stand Hollow
upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general is not like the hive To whom the foragers
shall all repair, What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded, The unworthiest shows as fairly in the
mask. The heavens themselves, the planets and this centre Observe degree, priority and place, Insisture,
course, proportion, season, form, Office and custom, in all line of order; And therefore is the glorious
planet Sol In noble eminence enthroned and sphered Amidst the other; whose medicinable eye Corrects
the ill aspects of planets evil, And posts, like the commandment of a king, Sans cheque to good and
bad: but when the planets In evil mixture to disorder wander, What plagues and what portents! what mutiny! What
raging of the sea! shaking of earth! Commotion in the winds! frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack,
rend and deracinate The unity and married calm of states Quite from their fixure! O, when degree is shaked, Which
is the ladder to all high designs, Then enterprise is sick! How could communities, Degrees in schools
and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, The primogenitive and due of birth, Prerogative
of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, But by degree, stand in authentic place? Take but degree away, untune
that string, And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should
lift their bosoms higher than the shores And make a sop of all this solid globe: Strength should be lord
of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead: Force should be right; or rather, right and
wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides, Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then
every thing includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf, So
doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself. Great
Agamemnon, This chaos, when degree is suffocate, Follows the choking. And this neglection of degree
it is That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose It hath to climb. The general's disdain'd By him one
step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath; so every step, Exampled by the first pace that is
sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation: And 'tis this fever that
keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her
strength. NESTOR
Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover'd The fever whereof all our power is sick. AGAMEMNON
The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, What is the remedy? ULYSSES
The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear full of
his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking our designs: with him Patroclus Upon
a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests; And with ridiculous and awkward action, Which, slanderer,
he imitation calls, He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on, And,
like a strutting player, whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue
and sound 'Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldage, Such to-be-pitied and o'er-wrested seeming He
acts thy greatness in: and when he speaks, 'Tis like a chime a-mending; with terms unsquared, Which,
from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp'd Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff The large Achilles,
on his press'd bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries 'Excellent! 'tis Agamemnon
just. Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard, As he being drest to some oration.' That's done, as
near as the extremest ends Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife: Yet god Achilles still cries 'Excellent! 'Tis
Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night alarm.' And then, forsooth,
the faint defects of age Must be the scene of mirth; to cough and spit, And, with a palsy-fumbling on his
gorget, Shake in and out the rivet: and at this sport Sir Valour dies; cries 'O, enough, Patroclus; Or give me
ribs of steel! I shall split all In pleasure of my spleen.' And in this fashion, All our abilities, gifts, natures,
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