Puslapio vaizdai

In Cressid's love. Thou answer'st, she is fair ;
Pour't in the open ulcer of my heart
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gate, her voice;
Handleft in thy discourse that! her hand!
(In whose comparison, all whites are ink
Writing their own reproach) to whose soft seizure
The cignet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of ploughman. This thou tell'st me ;
(As, true thou tell’t me;) when I say, I love her :
But saying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay'ft, in every gash that love hath given me,
The knife that made it.

Pan. I speak no more than truth.
Troi. 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.

Troi, Good Pandarus; how now, Pandarus?

Pan. I have had my labour for my travel, ill thought on of her, and ill thought on of you: gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour.

Troi. 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 fhe were a black-a-moor ; 'tis all one

to me.

Troi. 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 i'th' matter.

Troi. Pandarus,
Pan. Not I.
Troi. Sweet. Pandarus,

Pan. Pray you, speak no more to me; I will leave all as I found it, and there's an end. [Exit Pandarus.

Sound Aarum. Troi. Peace, you ungracious clamours ! peace, rude sounds!



Fools on both sides.—Helen must needs be fair,
When with your blood you daily paint her thus,
I cannot fight upon this Argument,
It is too starv'd a subject for my sword:
But PandarusO Gods ! how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Cresjid, but by Pandar;
And he's as teachy to be woo'd to wooe,
As she is stubborn-chast against all sute.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we:
Her bed is India, there she lyes, a pearl ;
Between our Ilium, and where she resides,
Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood ;
Our self the merchant, and this failing Pandar,
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.

[Alarum.] Enter Æneas.
Æne. How now Prince Troilus? wherefore not i'th'

Troi. Because not there; this woman's answer forts,
For womanish it is to be from thence:
What news, Æneas, from the field to day?

Æne. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
Troi. By whom, Æneas?
Æne. Troilus, by Menelaus.

Troi, Let Paris bleed, 'tis but a scar to scorn;
Paris is gor'd with Menelaus' horn.

[Alarum, Æne. Hark, what good sport is out of town to day?

Troi. Better at home, if would I might, were may
But to the sport abroad- -are you bound thither?

Æne. In all swift haste.
Troi. Come, go we then together,



SCENE changes to a publick. Street, near the

Walls of Troy.

Enter Cressida, and Alexander, ber Servant, Cre. HO were those went by ?

Ser. Queen Hecuba and Helen.
Cre. And whither go they?

Ser. Up to th' eastern tower,
Whose height commands as subject all the vale,
To see the fight. Heftor, whose patience
Is, as the Virtue, fix'd, to day was mov’d: (5)
He chid Andromache, and struck his armorer ;
And like as there were husbandry in war,
Before the Sun rose, he was harness-dight, (6)
And to the field goes he ; where ev'ry flower
Did as a prophet weep what it foresaw,
In Hector's wrath.


-whale Patience Is as a Virtue fix’d,] What's the Meaning of HeEtor's Patience being fix'd as a Virtue? Is not Patience a Virtue? What Room then for the Similitude ? The Poet certainly wrote, as I have conjecturally reform'd the Text; and this is giving a fine Character of it, to say, His Patience is as stedfast as the Virtue of Patience itself; or the Goddess so calld : for the Poets have always personaliz’d the Quality. So we find Troilus a little before saying ;

Patience herself, what Goddess ere foe be,
Doth leffor blench at Sufferance than I do.

Mr. Warburton. (6) Before the Sun rose, he was harnest light] Why, harnest light? Does the Poet mean, that Heator had put on light Armour ? Or that he was sprightly in his Arms, even before Sun-rise ? Or is a Conundrum aim'd at, in Sun rose, and harnest light? A very slight Alteration makes all these Constructions unnecessary, and gives us the Poet's Meaning in the properest Terms imaginable.

Before the Sun rose, be was harness-dight, i.e. compleatly drest, accoutred, in Arms. It is frequent with our Poet, from his Masters Chaucer and Spenser, to say dight for deck'd; pight, for pitch'd ; &c. and from them too he uses Harness for Armour, So, again, in Macbeth ;

--blow, Wind! come, Wrack !
At least we'll die with Harness on our Back.


Cre. What was his cause of anger?

Ser. The noise goes thus ; There is among the Greeks A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector, They call him Ajax.

Cre. Good; and what of him?

Ser. They say, he is a very man per se, and stands alone.

Cre. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no legs.

Ser. This man, lady, hath robb'd many beasts of their particular additions ; he is as valiant as the lyon, churlish as the bear, Now as the elephant; a man into whom Nature hath so crouded humours, that his valour is crushc into folly, his folly sauced with discretion : there is no man hath a virtue, that he hath not a glimpse of; nor any man an attaint, but he carries some stain of it. He is melancholy without cause, and merry against the hair ; he hath the joints of every thing, but every thing so out of joint, that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use; or purblind Argus, all eyes and no sight.

Cre. But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector angry?

Ser. They say, he yesterday cop'd Heffor in the battle and struck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since kept Hector fasting and waking.

Enter Pandarus.
Cre. Who comes here?
Ser. Madam, your uncle Pandarus.
Cre. Hector's a gallant man.
Ser. As may be in the world, lady.
Pan. What's that? what's that?
Cre. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.

Pan. Good morrow, cousin Crellid; what do of? (7) Good morrow, Alexander ;-how do you, cousin? when were you at Ilium?


you talk

(7) Good morrow, coufin Creslid; What do you talk of ? Good morrow, ALEXANDER; - How do you, cousin?] Good morrow, Alexander is added in all the Editions, says Mr. Pope, very absurdly, Paris not being on the Stage. Wonderful Acuteness ! But, with Submission, this Gentleman's Note is much more absurd : for it falls out very unluckily for his Remark, that tho Paris is, for the Generality, in Homer call d'Alexander; yet, in this Play, by any one of the Characters introduc'd, he is called nothing but Paris.' The Truth of the fact is this. Pandarus is of a busy, impertinent, insinuating Character; and 'tis natural for him, so soon as he has given his Cousin the good Morrow, to pay his Civilities too to her Attendant. This is purely ev ötes, as the Grammarians call it ; and gives us an admirable Touch of Pandarus's Character. And why might not Alexander be the Name of Cressid's Man? Paris had no Patent, I suppose, for engrofling it to himself. But the late Editor, perhaps, because we have had Alexander the Great, Pope Alexander, and Alexander Pope, would not have so eminent a Name prostituted to a common Valet.

Cre. This morning, uncle.

Pan. What were you talking of, when I came? was Hector arm’d and gone, ere ye came to Ilium ? Helen was not up? was she? Cre, Hector was gone ; but Helen was not up. Pan. E'en so ; Hestor was stirring early. Cre. That were we talking of, and of his anger. Pan. Was he angry? Cre. So he says, here.

Pan. True, he was fo; I know the cause too: he'll lay about him to day, I can tell them That; and there's Troilus will not come far behind him, let them take heed of Troilus; I can tell them That too.

Cre. What is he angry too?
Pan. Who, Troilus?

- Troilus is the better man of the two. Cre. Oh, Jupiter ! there's no comparison.

Pan. What, not between Troilus and Hector ? do you know a man, if you see him?

Cre. Ay, if I ever saw him before, and knew him.
Pan. Well, I say, Troilus is Troilus.

Cre. Then you say, as I say; for, I am sure, he is not HeEtor.

Pan. No, nor HeEtor is not Troilus, in some degrees.
Cre. 'Tis just to each of them, he is himself.
Pan. Himself? alas, poor Troilus ! I would he were.
Cre. So he is.
Pan. 'Condition, I had gone bare-foot to India.


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