THERSITES.
Mother, thy petition, I pray God, be fulfilled, For then no knaves' blood shall be spilled.
Fellows, keep my counsel; by the mass, I do but crake:[593]
I will be gentle enough, and no business make.
But yet I will make her believe that I am a man-- Think you that I will fight? no, no, but with the can.
Except I find my enemy on this wise, That he be asleep, or else cannot arise.
If his arms and his feet be not fast bound, I will not proffer a stripe for a thousand pound.
Farewell, mother, and tarry here no longer, For after prowess of chivalry I do both thirst and hunger: I will beat the knaves as flat as a conger.
[_Then the mother goeth in the place which is prepared for her_.
What, how long shall I tarry; be your hearts in your hose?
Will there none of you in battle me oppose?
Come, prove me, why stand you so in doubt?
Have you any wild blood that ye would have let out?
Alack, that a man's strength cannot be knowen, Because that he lacketh enemies to be overthrowen!
[_Here a snail must appear unto him, and he must look fearfully upon the snail, saying_:
But what a monster do I see now,[594]
Coming hitherward with an armed brow!
What is it? ah, it is a sow!
No, by God's body, it is but a gristle, And on the back it hath never a bristle.
It is not a cow--ah, there I fail: For then it should have a long tail.
What the devil, I was blind! it is but a snail: I was never so afraid in east nor in south; My heart at the first sight was at my mouth.
Marry, sir, fy, fy, fy, I do sweat for fear: I thought I had craked but too timely here.
Hence, thou beast, and pluck in thy horns, Or I swear by him that crowned was with thorns, I will make thee drink worse than good ale in the corns.
Hast thou nothing else to do, But come with horns and face me so?
How, how, my servants, get you shield and spear, And let us worry and kill this monster here.
[_Here Miles cometh in_.
MILES.
Is not this a worthy knight, That with a snail dareth not fight, Except he have his servants' aid?
Is this the champion that maketh all men afraid?
I am a poor soldier come of late from Calais, I trust, ere I go, to debate some of his malice.
I will tarry my time, till I do see Betwixt him and the snail what the end will be.
THERSITES.
Why, ye whoreson knaves, regard ye not my calling?
Why do ye not come, and with you weapons bring?
Why shall this monster so escape killing?
No, that he shall not, and God be willing.
MILES.
I promise you this is as worthy a knight, As ever shall bread out of a bottle bite.
I think he be Dares, of whom Virgil doth write, That would not let Entellus alone, But ever provoked and ever called on, But yet at the last he took a fall, And so within a while I trow I make thee[595] shall.
THERSITES.
By God's passion, knaves, if I come, I will you fetter: Regard ye my calling and crying no better?
Why, whoresons, I say, will ye not come?
By the mass, the knaves be all from home: They had better have fet me an errand at Rome.
MILES.
By my troth, I think that very scant This lubber dare adventure to fight with an ant.
THERSITES.
Well, seeing my servants come to me will not, I must take heed that this monster me spill not; I will jeopard with it a joint, And other with my club or my sword's point I will reach it such wounds, As I would not have for forty thousand pounds.
Pluck in thy horns, thou unhappy beast; What, facest thou me? wilt not thou be in rest?
Why, will not thou thy horns in hold?
Thinkest thou that I am a cuckold?
God's arms, the monster cometh toward me still, Except I fight manfully, it will me surely kill!
[_Then he must fight against the snail with his club_.
MILES.
O Jupiter Lord, dost thou not see and hear, How he feareth the snail, as it were a bear!
THERSITES.
Well, with my club I have had good luck; Now with my sword have at thee a pluck!
[_And he must cast his club away_.
I will make thee, ere I go, for to duck, And thou were as tall a man as Friar Tuck.
I say yet again, thy horns in draw, Or else I will make thee to have wounds raw.
Art thou not afeard To have thy beard Pared with my sword?
[_Here he must fight then with his sword against the snail, and the snail draweth her horns in_.
Ah well, now no more: Thou mightest have done so before.
I laid at it so sore, That it thought it should have be lore[596]
And it had not drawn in his horns again, Surely I would the monster have slain.