Act Fourth. Scene I. Troy. A street. Enter, at one side, Æneas, and Servant with a torch; at the other, Paris, De phobus, Antenor, Diomedes, and others, with torches. Par. See, ho! who is that there? Dei. It is the Lord Æneas. Ene. Is the prince there in person? Had I so good occasion to lie long As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business Dio. That's my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Æneas. Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told how Diomed a whole week by days Did haunt you in the field. Ene. Health to you, valiant sir, During all question of the gentle truce; But when I meet you arm'd, as black defiance Dio. The one and other Diomed embraces. ΙΟ Our bloods are now in calm; and, so long, health; By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life The thing he means to kill more excellently. With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow. Dio. We do; and long to know each other worse. The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of. 21 30 Ene. I was sent for to the king; but why, I know not. Ene. Par. Haste there before us. I constantly do think, That I assure you: Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece There is no help; The bitter disposition of the time Will have it so. Ene. Good morrow, On, lord; we'll follow you. all. [Exit with Servant. Par. And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell me true, Dio. Both alike: He merits well to have her that doth seek her, you as With such a hell of pain and world of charge; 40 50 60 The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece; Both merits poised, each weighs nor less nor more, Par. You are too bitter to your countrywoman. A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple A Trojan hath been slain: since she could speak, 70 [Exeunt. Scene II Court of Pandarus' house. Enter Troilus and Cressida. Tro. Dear, trouble not yourself: the morn is cold. Tro. Cres. He shall unbolt the gates. Trouble him not; To bed, to bed: sleep kill those pretty eyes, As infants' empty of all thought! Tro. I prithee now, to bed. Cres. Good morrow, then. Are you a-weary of me? Tro. O Cressida! but that the busy day, Cres. Waked by the lark, hath roused the ribald crows, Night hath been too brief. Tro. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she Cres. stays As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love You men will never tarry. Prithee, tarry: O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off, one up. Pan. [Within] What, 's all the doors open here? Tro. It is your uncle. 20 |