By him one step below; he by the next; 130 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, 135 Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength.[1146] _Nest._ Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover'd The fever whereof all our power is sick. _Agam._ The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, 140 What is the remedy? _Ulyss._ The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host,[1147] Having his ear full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent 145 Lies mocking our designs: with him, Patroclus, Upon a lazy bed, the livelong day Breaks scurril jests;[1148] And with ridiculous and awkward action,[1149] Which, slanderer, he imitation calls, 150 He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon,[1150] Thy topless deputation he puts on;[1151] And, like a strutting player, whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound 155 'Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldage,[1152] Such to-be-pitied and o'er-wrested seeming[1153] He acts thy greatness in: and when he speaks, 'Tis like a chime a-mending; with terms unsquared,[1154] Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp'd, 160 Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff,[1155] The large Achilles, on his press'd bed lolling,[1156] From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries 'Excellent! 'tis Agamemnon just.[1157] Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard,[1158] 165 As he being dress'd to some oration.'[1159] That's done; as near as the extremest ends Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife:[1160] Yet god Achilles still cries 'Excellent![1161] 'Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, 170 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,[1162] Shake in and out the rivet: and at this sport[1163] 175 Sir Valour dies; cries 'O, enough, Patroclus; Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all[1164] In pleasure of my spleen.' And in this fashion, All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, Severals and generals of grace exact,[1165] 180 Achievements, plots, orders, preventions, Excitements to the field or speech for truce, Success or loss, what is or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes.[1166]