With too much blood and too little brain, these two may run mad,
but, if with too much brain and too little blood they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen. Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain as ear-wax; and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull, the primitive statue and oblique memorial of cuckolds, a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his brother’s leg—to what form but that he is, should wit larded with malice, and malice fac’d with wit, turn him to? To an ass, were nothing, he is both ass and ox; to an ox, were nothing, he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a moile, a cat, a fitchook, a toad, a lezard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny. Ask me not what I would be if I were not Thersites, for I care not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hey-day! sprites and fires!