Act First. Scene I. Troy. Before Priam's palace. Enter Pandarus and Troilus. Tro. Call here my varlet; I'll unarm again : Each Trojan that is master of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alas, hath none! Pan. Will this gear ne'er be mended? 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, Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, part, I'll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must Tro. Have I not tarried? ΙΟ 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 Tro. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be, 21 And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,— thence? Pan. Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I Tro. I was about to tell thee:—when my heart, 31 40 Helen's-well, go to-there were no more comparison between the women: but, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her: but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit, butTro. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus, When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd, They lie indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice, 50 Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me Pan. I speak no more than truth. Tro. Thou dost not speak so much. Pan. Faith, I'll not meddle in 't. 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- 70 thought on of her, and ill-thought on of you: gone between and between, but small thanks for Tro. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me? Pan. Because she's kin to me, therefore she's not Tro. Say I she is not fair? Tro. Pandarus, 80 Pan. Not I. Tro. Sweet Pandarus, Pan. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave 90 all as I found it, and there an end. [Exit. An alarum. Tro. Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds! It is too starved a subject for my sword. Alarum. Enter Æneas. 100 Ene. How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not afield? What news, Æneas, from the field to-day? Ene. That Paris is returned home, and hurt. Ene. Troilus, by Menelaus. |