a Trojan priest, taking part with the Greeks. -, Uncle to Cressida.

LON, a bastard son of Priam.

ON, the Grecian General :

s, his brother.

Troilus; Servant to Paris; Servant to Diomedes.

Life to Menelaus.

CHE, wife to Hector.

A, daughter to Priam; a Prophetess.

, daughter to Calchas.

ojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants.

VE, Troy, and the Grecian Camp before it.

Freeks.

Diomedes.

ts.

e it.

Troy. Before Priam's Pala

Enter TROILUS arm'd, and PAN

CALL here

Troilus.

my varlet, I'll unarm agai Why should I war without the walls That find fuch cruel battle here within? Each Trojan, that is master of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath no Pan. Will this geer ne'er be mended ? Tro. The Greeks are strong, and skilful Fierce to their skill, and to their fiercene But I am weaker than a woman's tear, Tamer than fleep, fonder than ignorance Less valiant than the virgin in the night, And skill-less as unpractis'd infancy.

Pan. Well, I have told you enough part, I'll not meddle nor make no furthe have a cake out of the wheat, must tarry Tro. Have I not tarry'd?

Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must
Tro. Have I not tarry'd ?

Pan. Ay, the bolting; but you must ta

B

Tro. Still have I tarry'd.

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 leffer blench at fufferance than I do.

At Priam's royal table do I fit;

And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,-
So, traitor!- when she comes!

When is the thence ?

Pan. Well, she look'd yesternight fairer than ever I faw her look; or any woman elfe.

Tro. I was about to tell thee,-When my heart,

As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain ;
Left Hector or my father should perceive me,
I have (as when the fun doth light a storm,)
Bury'd this figh in wrinkle of a fmile :
But forrow, that is couch'd in feeming gladness,
Is like that mirth fate turns to fudden sadness.

Pan. An her hair were not fomewhat darker than Helen's, (well, go to,) there were no more comparifon between the women,-But, for my part, the is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her,-But I would fomebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit: but

Tro. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus, -
When I do tell thee, There my hopes lie drown'd,
Reply not in how many fathoms deep
They lie indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad
In Cressid's love: Thou answer'st, She is fair;
Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart

Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice;
Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand,
In whose comparison all whites are ink,

Writing

Writing

if the be fair, 'tis the better for her; has the mends in her own hands.

Tro. Good Pandarus! how now, Pan Pan. I have had my labour for my tr on of her, and ill-thought on of you: { between, but fmall thanks for my labou Tro. What, art thou angry, Pandarus Pan. Because she is kin to me, ther fair as Helen: an she were not kin to mo fair on friday, as Helen is on sunday. I care not, an fhe were a black-a-mo

me.

Tro. Say I, she is not fair? Pan. I do not care whether you do or to stay behind her father; let her to the I'll tell her, the next time I see her: meddle nor make no more in the matter.

Tro. Pandarus,

Pan. Not I.

Tro. Sweet Pandarus,

Pan. Pray you, speak no more to me as I found it, and there an end.

[Exit PANDA

Tro. Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude

founds!

Fools on both fides! 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 Pandarus-O gods, how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Cressid, but by Pandar;
And he's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo,
As she is stubborn-chaste against all fuit.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,
What Creffid is, what Pandar, and what we ?
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl:
Between our Ilium, and where she resides,
Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood;
Ourself, the merchant; and this failing Pandar,
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.

Alarum. Enter ÆNEAS.

Ene. How now, prince Troilus? wherefore not afield? Tro. Because not there; This woman's answer forts,

For womanish it is to be from thence.

What news, Æneas, from the field to-day?

Ene. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.

Tro. By whom, Æneas?

Æne.

Troilus, by Menelaus.

Tro. 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! Tro. Better at home, if would I might, were may. But, to the sport abroad ;- Are you bound thither?

Ane.