ENEAS, ANTENOR, Trojan Commanders. CALCHAS, a Trojan Priest, taking part with the Greeks. PANDARUS, Uncle to CRESSIDA. AGAMEMNON, the Grecian General. MENELAUS, his Brother. THERSITES, a deformed and scurrilous Grecian. ALEXANDER, Servant to CRESSIDA. Servant to TROILUS. Servant to PARIS. Servant to DIOMEDES. HELEN, Wife to MENELAUS. ANDROMACHE, Wife to HECTOR. CASSANDRA, Daughter to PRIAM, a Prophetess. Trojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants. SCENE, TROY, and the Grecian Camp before it. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. PROLOGUE. In Troy, there lies the scene. With wanton Paris sleeps; and that's the quarrel. And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, Like, or find fault; do as your pleasures are; ACT I. SCENE I.-TROY. Before PRIAM's Palace. Enter TROILUS armed, and PANDARUS. Tro. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant; But I am weaker than a woman's tear, And skilless as unpractis'd infancy. Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part, I'll not meddle nor make no further. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding. Tro. Have I not tarried? Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting. Tro. Have I not tarried? Pan. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening. Tro. Still have I tarried. Pan. Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word hereafter, the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips. Tro. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be, Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do. At Priam's royal table do I sit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts, So, traitor!-when she comes!-When is she thence? Pan. Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else. Tro. I was about to tell thee,-when my heart, I have, as when the sun doth light a storm,— But sorrow that is couch'd in seeming gladness Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness. Pan. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's,—well, go to,—there were no more comparison Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice; In whose comparison all whites are ink, Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure Hard as the palm of ploughman!-This thou tell'st me, Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me Pan. I speak no more than truth. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in her own hands. Tro. Good Pandarus,-how now, Pandarus! Pan. I have had my labour for my travail; ill-thought on of her, and ill-thought on of you: gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour. Tro. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me? Pan. Because she is kin to me, therefore she's not so fair as Helen: an she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a blackamoor; 'tis all one to me. Tro. Say I, she is not fair? Pan. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay behind her father; let her to the Greeks; and so I'll tell her the next time I see her: for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more in the matter. Tro. Pandarus,— Pan. Not I. Tro. Sweet Pandarus, Pan. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and there an end. [Exit. An alarum. Tro. Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds! |