Up to the eastern tower,
Whose height commands as subject all the vale,
To see the battle. Hector, whose patience
Is as a virtue fix'd, to-day was mov'd.
He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer;
And, like as there were husbandry in war,
Before the sun rose he was harness'd light,
And to the field goes he; where every flower
Did as a prophet weep what it foresaw
In Hector's wrath.
CRESSIDA. What was his cause of anger?
ALEXANDER. The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks
A lord of Troyan blood, nephew to Hector;
They call him Ajax.
CRESSIDA. Good; and what of him?
ALEXANDER. They say he is a very man per se,
And stands alone.
CRESSIDA. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have
no
legs.
ALEXANDER. This man, lady, hath robb'd many beasts of their
particular additions: he is as valiant as a lion, churlish as
the
bear, slow as the elephant-a man into whom nature hath so
crowded
humours that his valour is crush'd into folly, his folly
sauced
with discretion. There is no man hath a virtue that he hath
not a
glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain
of
it; he is melancholy without cause and merry against the
hair; he
hath the joints of every thing; but everything so out of
joint
that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or
purblind
Argus, all eyes and no sight.
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