But of the common herd whome’er he found Clam’ring, he check’d with staff and threat’ning words: “Good friend, keep still, and hear what others say, Thy betters far: for thou art good for nought, Of small account in council or in fight. All are not sovereigns here: ill fares the state Where many masters rule; let one be Lord, One King supreme; to whom wise Saturn’s son In token of his sov’reign power hath giv’n The sceptre’s sway and ministry of law.” Such were his words, as through the ranks he pass’d: They from the vessels and the tents again Throng’d to th’ Assembly, with such rush of sound, As when the many-dashing ocean’s wave Breaks on the shore, and foams the frothing sea. The others all were settled in their seats: Only Thersites, with unmeasur’d words, Of which he had good store, to rate the chiefs, Not over-seemly, but wherewith he thought To move the crowd to laughter, brawl’d aloud. The ugliest man was he who came to Troy: With squinting eyes, and one distorted foot, His shoulders round, and buried in his breast His narrow head, with scanty growth of hair. Against Achilles and Ulysses most His hate was turn’d; on them his venom pour’d; Anon, at Agamemnon’s self he launch’d His loud-tongued ribaldry; ’gainst him he knew Incensed the public mind; and bawling loud,[1] With scurril words, he thus address’d the King: “What more, thou son of Atreus, would’st thou have? Thy tents are full of brass; and in those tents Many fair women, whom, from all the spoil, We Greeks, whene’er some wealthy town we take, Choose first of all, and set apart for thee. Or dost thou thirst for gold, which here perchance Some Trojan brings, the ransom of his son Captur’d by me, or by some other Greek? Or some new girl, to gratify thy lust, Kept for thyself apart? a leader, thou Shouldst not to evil lead the sons of Greece. Ye slaves! ye coward souls! Women of Greece! I will not call you men! why go we not Home with our ships, and leave this mighty chief To gloat upon his treasures, and find out Whether in truth he need our aid, or no; Who on Achilles, his superior far, Foul scorn hath cast, and robb’d him of his prize, Which for himself he keeps? Achilles, sure, Is not intemperate, but mild of mood; Else, Atreus’ son, this insult were thy last.”