Cre.
Who were those went by?

Ser.
Queen Hecuba, and Helen.

Cre.
And whither go they?

Ser.
Up to the eastern tower,
Whose height commands, as subject, all the vale,
To see the battle. Hector, whose patience
Is, as the virtue, fix'd, to-day was mov'd:
He chid Andromache, and strook his armorer;
And, like as there were husbandry in war,
Before the sun rose, he was harness'd light,
And to the field goes he; where every flower
Did, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw
In Hector's wrath† ^note.

Cre.
What was his cause of anger?

Ser.
The noise goes, this: 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 lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant: a man into whom

nature hath so crouded humours, that his valour is crush'd 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 purblinded Argus, all eyes and no sight* ^note.

Cre.

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

Ser.

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

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 Cressid: What do you talk of?—Good morrow, Alexander:—How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium?

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; Hector 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 so; 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.

O 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† ^note.

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Then you say as I say; for, I am sure, he is not Hector.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;No, nor Hector is not Troilus, in some degrees.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;'Tis just to each of them; he is himself.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Himself? Alas, poor Troilus! I would, he were,—&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;So he is.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;—condition, I had gone bare-foot to India.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;He is not Hector.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Himself? no, he's not himself; 'Would, a were himself! Well, the gods are above; time must friend, or end: Well, Troilus, well,—I would, my heart were in her body! No, Hector is not a better man than Troilus.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Excuse me.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;He is elder.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Pardon me, pardon me.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;The other's not come to't; you shall tell me another tale, when th' other's come to't. Hector shall not have his wit this year.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;He shall not need it, if he have his own.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Nor his qualities:&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;No matter.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Nor his beauty.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;'Twould not become him, his own's better.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;You have no judgment, niece: Helen herself swore th' other day, that Troilus, for a brown favour, (for so 'tis, I must confess)—not brown neither—&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;No, but brown.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;'Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;To say the truth, true and not true.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;She prais'd his complexion above Paris.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Why, Paris hath colour enough.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;So he has.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Then, Troilus should have too much: if she prais'd him above, his complexion is higher than his; he having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a good complexion. I had as lieve, Helen's golden tongue had commended Troilus for a copper nose.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;I swear to you, I think Helen loves him better than Paris.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Then she's a merry Greek, indeed.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th' other day into the compast window,—and, you know, he has not past three or four hairs on his chin.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Indeed, a tapster's arithmetic may soon bring his particulars therein to a total.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Why, he is very young: and yet will he, within three pound, lift as much as his brother Hector.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Is he so young a man, and so old a lifter?&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;But to prove to you that Helen loves him;— she came, and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin.—&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Juno have mercy!—how came it cloven?&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Why, you know 'tis dimpl'd: I think, his smiling becomes him better than any man in all Phrygia.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;O, he smiles valiantly.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Does he not?&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;O, yes; an 'twere a cloud in autumn.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Why, go to then: But to prove to you that Helen loves Troilus;—&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Troilus will stand to the proof, if you'll prove it so.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Troilus? why, he esteems her no more than I esteem an addle egg.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i'th' shell.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;I cannot choose but laugh, to think how she tickl'd his chin; indeed, she has a marvel's white hand, I must needs confess.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Without the rack.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin:&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Alas, poor chin, many a wart is richer.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;But, there was such laughing.—Queen Hecuba laughed, that her eyes ran o'er:&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;With milstones.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;And Cassandra laugh'd:&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;But there was more temperate fire under the pot of her eyes.—Did her eyes run o'er too?&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;And Hector laugh'd:&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;At what was all this laughing?&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Marry, at the white hair that Helen spy'd on Troilus' chin.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;An't had been a green hair, I should have laugh'd too.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;They laugh'd not so much at the hair, as at his pretty answer.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;What was his answer?&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Quoth she, Here's but one and fifty hairs on your chin, and one of them is white.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;This is her question.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;That's true; make no question of that. One and fifty hairs, quoth he, and one white: That white hair is my father, and all the rest are his sons. Jupiter! quoth she, which of these hairs is Paris, my husband? The forked one, quoth he; pluck't out and give it him. But, there was such laughing! and Helen so blush'd, and Paris so chaf'd, and all the rest so laugh'd, that it pass'd.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;So let it now; for it has been a great while going by.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; think on't.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;So I do.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;I'll be sworn, 'tis true: he will weep you— an 'twere a man born in April.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;And I'll spring up in his tears, an 'twere a nettle against May.&brquo;

Pan.

Hark, they are coming from the field: Shall we stand up here, and see them, as they pass toward Ilium? good niece, do; sweet niece Cressida.

Cre.

At your pleasure.

Pan.

Here, here, here's an excellent place; here we may see most bravely: I'll tell you them all by their names, as they pass by; but mark Troilus above the rest.

Cre.

Speak not so loud.

Pan.

That's Æneas; is not that a brave man? he's one of the flowers of Troy, I can tell you; but mark Troilus: you shall see anon.

Cre.

Who's that?

Pan.

That's Antenor; he has a shrewd wit, I can tell you; and he's man good enough: he's one o'th' soundest judgments in Troy, whosoever; and a proper man of person:—When comes Troilus?—I'll shew you Troilus anon; if he see me, you shall see him nod at me.

Cre.

Will he give you the nod?

Pan.

You shall see.

Cre.

If he do, the rich shall have more.

Pan.

That's Hector, that, that, look you, that; There's a fellow!—Go thy way, Hector;—There's a brave man, niece;—O brave Hector!—Look how he looks; there's a countenance; is't not a brave man?

Cre.

O, a brave man.

Pan.

Is a not? it does a man's heart good—Look you, what hacks are on his helmet? look you yonder, do you see? look you there: There's no jesting: laying on; take't off who will, as they say: there be hacks.

Cre.

Be those with swords?

Pan.

Swords? any thing, he cares not; an the devil come to him, it's all one: By god's lid, it does one's heart good:—Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris:

Paris passes over.

Look ye yonder, niece; Is't not a gallant man too, is't not?—Why, this is brave now. Who said, he came hurt home to-day? he's not hurt: why, this will do Helen's heart good now. Ha! 'would I could see Troilus now!—you shall see Troilus anon.

Cre.

Who's that?

Pan.

That's Helenus;—I marvel, where Troilus is;— that's Helenus;—I think, he went not forth to-day;— that's Helenus.

Cre.

Can Helenus fight, uncle?

Pan.

Helenus? no;—yes, he'll fight indifferent well: —I marvel, where Troilus is!—Hark; do you not hear the people cry, Troilus? Helenus is a priest.

Cre.

What sneaking fellow comes yonder?

Pan.

Where? yonder? that's Deiphobus: 'Tis Troilus! There's a man, niece!—hem!—Brave Troilus! the prince of chivalry!

Cre.

Peace, for shame, peace.

Pan.

Mark him; note him;—O brave Troilus!— look well upon him, niece; look you, how his sword is bloody'd, and his helm more hack'd than Hector's; And how he looks, and how he goes! O admirable youth!—he ne'er saw three and twenty. Go thy way. Troilus, go thy way; had I a sister were a grace, or a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. Paris? Paris is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to change* ^note, would give money to boot.

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Here come more.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Asses, fools, dolts; chaff and bran, chaff and bran, porridge after meat. I could live and die i'the eyes of Troilus. Ne'er look, ne'er look; the eagles

are gone; crows and daws, crows and daws, I had rather be such a man as Troilus, than Agamemnon and all Greece.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;There is among the Greeks, Achilles; a better man than Troilus.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Achilles? a drayman, a porter, a very camel.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Well, well.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Well, well? Why, have you any discretion? have you any eyes? do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man?&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Ay, a minc'd man: and then to be bak'd with no date in the pye,—for then the man's date's out.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;You are such a woman! a man knows not at what ward you lye.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to defend my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these: and at all these wards I lye, at a thousand watches.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Say one of your watches.&brquo;

&blquo;Cre.

&blquo;Nay, I'll watch you for that; and that's one of the chiefest of them too: if I cannot ward what I would not have hit, I can watch you for telling how I took the blow; unless it swell past hiding, and then it's past watching.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;You are such another!&brquo;

&blquo;Boy.

&blquo;Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Where?&brquo;

&blquo;Boy.

&blquo;At your own house; there he unarms him.&brquo;

&blquo;Pan.

&blquo;Good boy, tell him I come: [Exit Boy.] I doubt, he be hurt.&brquo;—Fare ye well, good niece.&brquo;

Cre.

Adieu, uncle.

Pan.

I'll be with you, niece, by and by.

Cre.

To bring, uncle,—

Pan.

Ay, a token from Troilus.

Cre.
By the same token—you are a bawd.—

Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice,
He offers in another's enterprize:
But more in Troilus thousand fold I see,
Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be;
Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing;
Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing:
That she belov'd knows nought, that knows not this,—
Men prize the thing ungain'd more than it is:
That she was never yet, that ever knew
Love got so sweet, as when desire did sue:
Therefore this maxim out of love I teach,—
Atchievement is, command; ungain'd, beseech:
Then though my heart's content firm love doth bear,
Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. [Exeunt. ^noteSCENE III.

* [Footnote: The Grecian Camp. Before a Tent. Enter Agamemnon, Nestor, Ulysses, Menelaus, and others.

Aga.
Princes,
What grief hath set this jaundice on your cheeks† ^note?
The ample proposition, that hope makes
In all designs begun on earth below,
Fails in the promis'd largeness: checks and disasters
Grow in the veins of actions highest rear'd;
As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap,
Infect the sound pine, and divert his grain
Tortive and errant from his course of growth,
Nor, princes, is it matter new to us,
That we come short of our suppose so far,
That, after seven years' siege, yet Troy walls stand;
Sith every action that hath gone before,
Whereof we have record, trial did draw
Bias and thwart, not answering the aim,
And that unbody'd figure of the thought

That gave't surmised shape. Why then, you princes,
Do you with cheeks abash'd behold our works;
And think them shames, which are, indeed, nought else
But the protractive trials of great Jove,
To find persistive constancy in men?
The fineness of which metal is not found
In fortune's love: for then, the bold and coward,
The wise and fool, the artist and unread,
The hard and soft, seem all affin'd and kin:
But, in the wind and tempest of her frown,
Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan,
Puffing at all, winnows the light away;
And what hath mass, or matter, by itself
Lies, rich in virtue, and unmingled.

Nes.
With due observance of thy godlike seat,
Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply
Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance
Lies the true proof of men: The sea being smooth
How many shallow bauble boats dare sail
Upon her patient breast, making their way
With those of nobler bulk?
But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage
The gentle Thetis, and, anon, behold
The strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cut,
Bounding between the two moist elements
Like Perseus' horse: Where's then the saucy boat,
Whose weak untimber'd sides but even now
Co-rival'd greatness? either to harbour fled,
Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so
Doth valour's shew, and valour's worth, divide
In storms of fortune: For, in her ray and brightness,
The herd hath more annoyance by the brize,
Than by the tiger: but when the splitting wind
Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks,
And flies flee under shade, Why, then, the thing of courage,
As rouz'd with rage, with rage doth sympathize,
And, with an accent tun'd in self-same key,
Returns to chiding fortune.

Uly.
Agamemnon,—
Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece,

Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit,
In whom the tempers and the minds of all
Should be shut up,—hear what Ulysses speaks.
Besides the applause and approbation,
The which,—most mighty for thy place and sway,—
And thou most reverend for thy stretcht-out life,—
I give to both your speeches,—which were such,
As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece
Should hold up high in brass; and such again,
As venerable Nestor, hatch'd in silver‡ ^note,
Should with a bond of air (strong as the axle-tree
On which heaven rides) knit all the Greekish ears
To his experienc'd tongue,—let it please both,—
Thou great,—and wise,—to hear Ulysses speak.

Aga.
Speak, prince of Ithaca: and we less expect
That matter needless, of importless burthen,
Divide thy lips; than we are confident,
When rank Thersites opes his mastiff jaws,
We shall hear musick, wit, and oracle.

Uly.
Troy, yet upon her basis, had been down,
And the great Hector's sword had lack'd a master,
But for these instances.
The specialty of rule hath been neglected;
And, look, how many Grecian tents do stand
Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions.
When that the general is not lik'd o'the hive,
To whom the foragers shall all repair,
What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded,
The unworthiest shews as fairly in the mask.
&blquo;The heavens themselves, the planets, and this center,
&blquo;Observe degree, priority, and place,
&blquo;Insisture, course, proportion, season, form,
&blquo;Office, and custom, in all line of order&verbar2; ^note:
&blquo;And therefore is the glorious planet, Sol,
&blquo;In noble eminence enthron'd and spher'd
&blquo;Amidst the other; whose med'cinable eye

&blquo;Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil,
&blquo;And posts, like the commandment of a king,
&blquo;Sans check, to good and bad: But, when the planets,
&blquo;In evil mixture, to disorder wander,
&blquo;What plagues, and what portents? what mutiny?
&blquo;What raging of the sea? shaking of earth?
&blquo;Commotion in the winds? frights, changes, horrors,
&blquo;Divert and crack, rend and deracinate
&blquo;The unity and marry'd calm of states
&blquo;Quite from their fixure?&brquo; O, when degree is shak'd,
Which is the ladder of all high designs,
The enterprize is sick! How could communities,
Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities,
Peaceful commerce from dividable shores,
The primogeniture and due of birth,
Prerogative of age, crowns, scepters, laurels,
But by degree, stand in authentic place?
&blquo;Take but degree away, untune that string,
&blquo;And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets
&blquo;In meer oppugnancy: The bounded waters
&blquo;Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores,
&blquo;* ^noteAnd make a sop of all this solid globe:
&blquo;Strength should be lord of imbecillity,
&blquo;And the rude son should strike his father dead:
&blquo;Force should be right; or, rather, right and wrong
&blquo;(Between whose endless jar justice resides)
&blquo;Should lose their names, and so should justice too.
&blquo;Then every thing includes itself in power,
&blquo;Power into will, will into appetite;
&blquo;And appetite, an universal wolf,
&blquo;So doubly seconded with will and power,
&blquo;Must make perforce an universal prey,
&blquo;And, last, eat up himself.&brquo; Great Agamemnon,
This chaos, when degree is suffocate,
Follows the choaking.
And this neglection of degree it is,
That by a pace goes backward in a purpose

It hath to climb: The general's disdain'd
By him one step below; he, by the next;
That next, by him beneath: so every step,
Exampl'd by the first pace that is sick
Of his superior, grows to an envious fever
Of pale and bloodless emulation:
And 'tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot,
Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length,
Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength* ^note.

Nes.
Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover'd
The fever, whereof all our power is sick.

Aga.
The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses,
What is the remedy?

Uly.
The great Achilles,—whom opinion crowns
The sinew and the forehand of our host,—
Having his ear full of his airy fame,
Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent
Lies mocking our designs: With him, Patroclus,
Upon a lazy bed, the livelong day
Breaks scurril jests;
And with ridiculous and aukward action
(Which, slanderer, he imitation calls)
He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon,
Thy topless deputation he puts on;
And, like a strutting player,—whose conceit
Lies in his ham-string, and doth think it rich
To hear the wooden dialogue and sound
'Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldage,—
Such to-be-pity'd and o'er-rested seeming
He acts thy greatness in: and when he speaks,
'Tis like a chime a-mending; with terms unsquar'd,
Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp'd,
Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff,
The large Achilles, on his press'd bed lolling,
From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause;
Cries, Excellent! 'tis Agamemnon just.
Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard,

As he, being 'drest to some oration.
That's done; as near as the extremest ends
Of parallels, like as Vulcan and his wife:
Yet good Achilles still cries, Excellent!
'Tis Nestor right: Now play him me, Patroclus,
Arming to answer in a night alarm.
And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age
Must be the scene of mirth; to cough, and spit,
And, with a palsy fumbling on his gorget,
Shake in and out the rivet: and at this sport
Sir Valour dies; cries, O, enough, Patroclus;
Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all
In pleasure of my spleen. And in this fashion
All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,
Severals and generals of grace exact,
Atchievements, plots, orders, preventions,
Excitements to the field, or speech for truce,
Success, or loss, what is, or is not, serves
As stuff for these two to make paradoxes* ^note.

Nes.
And in the imitation of these twain
(Whom, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns
With an imperial voice) many are infect.
Ajax is grown self-will'd; and bears his head
In such a rein, in full as proud a place
As broad Achilles: keeps his tent like him;
Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of war,
Bold as an oracle: and sets Thersites
(A slave, whose gall coins slanders like a mint)
To match us in comparisons with dirt;
To weaken and discredit our exposure,
How rank soever rounded in with danger.

Uly.
They tax our policy, and call it cowardice;
Count wisdom as no member of the war;
Forestal prescience, and esteem no act
† ^noteBut that of hand: the still and mental parts,—

That do contrive how many hands shall strike,
When fitness calls them on; and know, by measure
Of their observant toil, the enemies' weight,—
Why, this hath not a finger's dignity;
They call this—bed work mappery, closet war:
So that the ram, that batters down the wall,
For the great swing and rudeness of his poize,
They place before his hand that made the engine;
Or those, that with the fineness of their souls
By reason guide his execution.

Nes.
Let this be granted, and Achilles' horse
Makes many Thetis' sons. [Trumpet heard.

Aga.
What trumpet's that? look, Menelaus.

Men.
From Troy. Enter Æneas.

Aga.
What would you 'fore our tent?

Æne.
Is this great Agamemnon's tent, I pray you?

Aga.
Even this.

Æne.
May one, that is a herald, and a prince,
Do a fair message to his kingly ears?

&blquo;Aga.
&blquo;With surety stronger than Achilles' arm
&blquo;'Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice
&blquo;Call Agamemnon head and general.

Æne.
Fair leave, and large security. How may
&blquo;A stranger to those most imperial looks
&blquo;Know them from eyes of other mortals?

&blquo;Aga.
&blquo;How?

&blquo;Æne.
&blquo;I ask, that I might waken reverence,
&blquo;And bid the cheek be ready with a blush
&blquo;Modest as morning, when she coldly eyes
&blquo;The youthful Phœbus:
&blquo;Which is that god in office, guiding men?
&blquo;Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon?

&blquo;Aga.
&blquo;This Trojan scorns us; or the men of Troy
&blquo;Are ceremonious courtiers.

&blquo;Æne.
&blquo;Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm'd,
&blquo;As bending angels; that's their fame in peace:
&blquo;But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls,
&blquo;Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove's accord,

&blquo;Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Æneas,
&blquo;Peace, Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips!
&blquo;The worthiness of praise distains his worth,
&blquo;If that the prais'd himself bring the praise forth:
&blquo;What the repining enemy commends,
&blquo;That breath same blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends.

&blquo;Aga.
&blquo;Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Æneas?

&blquo;Æne.
&blquo;Ay, Greek, that is my name.

&blquo;Aga.
&blquo;What's your affair, I pray you?

&blquo;Æne.
&blquo;Sir, pardon; 'tis for Agamemnon's ears.

&blquo;Aga.
&blquo;He hears nought privately, that comes from Troy.

&blquo;Æne.
&blquo;Nor I from Troy come not to whisper him:
&blquo;I bring a trumpet to awake his ear;
&blquo;To set his sense on the attentive bent,
&blquo;And then to speak.

Aga.
Speak frankly as the wind;
&blquo;It is not Agamemnon's sleeping hour:
&blquo;That thou shalt know, Trojan, he is awake,
&blquo;He tells thee so himself.

Æne.
Trumpet, blow loud,
Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents:—
And every Greek of mettle, let him know,
What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud. [Trumpet sounds.
We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy
A prince called Hector, Priam is his father,
Who in this dull and long continu'd truce
Is rusty grown; he bad me take a trumpet,
And to this purpose speak. Kings, princes, lords!
If there be one, among the fair'st of Greece,
That holds his honour higher than his ease;
That seeks his praise more than he fears his peril;
That knows his valour, and knows not his fear;
That loves his mistress more than in confession,
(With truant vows to her own lips he love)
And dare a vow her beauty, and her worth,
In other arms than hers,—to him this challenge.
Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks,
Shall make it good, or do his best to do it,

He hath a lady, wiser, fairer, truer,
Than ever Greek did compass in his arms;
And will to-morrow with his trumpet call,
Mid-way between your tents and walls of Troy,
To rouse a Grecian that is true in love:
If any come, Hector shall honour him;
If none, he'll say in Troy, when he retires,
The Grecian dames are sun-burnt, and not worth
The splinter of a lance. Even so much* ^note.

Aga.
This shall be told our lovers, lord Æneas;
If none of them have soul in such a kind,
We left them all at home: But we are soldiers;
And may that soldier a mere recreant prove,
That means not, hath not, or is not in love!
If then one is, or hath, or means to be,
That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he.

Nes.
Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man
When Hector's grandsire suck'd: he is old now;
But, if there be not in our Grecian host
One noble man, that hath one spark of fire
To answer for his love, tell him from me,—
I'll hide my silver breast-plate beard in a gold beaver,
And in my vauntbrace put this wither'd brawn;
And, meeting him, will tell him, That my lady
Was fairer than his grandame, and as chaste
As may be in the world: His youth in flood,
I'll pawn this truth with my three drops of blood.

Æne.
Now heavens forbid such scarcity of youth!

Aga.
Amen.—
Fair lord Æneas, let me touch your hand;
To our pavilion shall I lead you, sir.
Achilles shall have word of this intent;
So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent:
Yourself shall feast with us before you go,
And find the welcome of a noble foe. [Exeunt all but Uly. and Nes.

Uly.
Nestor,—

Nes.
What says Ulysses?

Uly.
I have a young conception in my brain,
Be you my time to bring it to some shape.

Nes.
What is't?

Uly.
Blunt wedges rive hard knots: The seeded pride
That hath to this maturity blown up
In rank Achilles, must or now be cropp'd,
Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil,
To over-bulk us all.

Nes.
Well, sir, and how?

Uly.
This challenge that the gallant Hector sends,
However it is spread in general name,
Relates in purpose only to Achilles.

Nes.
The purpose is perspicuous even as substance,
&blquo;Whose grossness little characters sum up:
&blquo;And, in the publication, make no strain,
&blquo;But that Achilles, were his brain as barren
&blquo;As banks of Lybia,—though, Apollo knows,
&blquo;'Tis dry enough,—will with great speed of judgment,
&blquo;Ay, with celerity, find Hector's purpose
&blquo;Pointing on him.

&blquo;Uly.
&blquo;And wake him to the answer, think you?

&blquo;Nes.
&blquo;Yes;
It is most meet; whom may you else oppose,
That can from Hector bring those honours off,
If not Achilles? &blquo;Though't be a sportful combat,
&blquo;Yet in the trial much opinion dwells;
&blquo;For here the Trojans taste our dear'st repute
&blquo;With their fin'st palate: And trust to me, Ulysses,
&blquo;Our imputation shall be oddly poiz'd
&blquo;In this wild action; for the success,
&blquo;Although particular, shall give a scantling
&blquo;Of good or bad unto the general;
&blquo;And in such indexes, although small pricks
&blquo;To their subsequent volumes, there is seen
&blquo;The baby-figure of the giant mass
&blquo;Of things to come at large.&brquo; It is suppos'd,
He, that meets Hector, issues from our choice;
And choice, being mutual act of all our souls,
Makes merit her election; and doth boil,
As 'twere, from forth us all, a man distill'd
Out of our virtues; who miscarrying,

What heart receives from hence, a conquering part,
To steel a strong opinion to themselves?

Uly.
Give pardon to my speech;—therefore 'tis meet,
Achilles meet not Hector: Let us, like merchants,
First shew foul wares, and think perchance they'll fell;
If not,
The lustre of the better shall exceed,
By shewing the worse first. Do not consent,
That ever Hector and Achilles meet;
For both our honour and our shame, in this,
Are dog'd with two strange followers.

Nes.
What are they?
I see them not with my old eyes; what are they?

Uly.
What glory our Achilles shares from Hector,
Were he not proud, we all should share with him:
But he already is too insolent;
And we were better parch in Afric sun,
Than in the pride and salt-scorn of his eyes,
Should he 'scape Hector fair: If he were foil'd,
Why, then we did our main opinion crush
In taint of our best man. No, make a lottery;
And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw
The sort to fight with Hector: Among ourselves,
Give him allowance for the better man;
For that will physic the great Myrmidon,
Who broils in loud applause; and make him fall
His crest, that prouder than blue Iris bends.
If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off,
We'll dress him up in voices: if he fail,
Yet go we under our opinion still,
That we have better men. But, hit or miss,
Our project's life this shape of sense assumes,—
Ajax employ'd plucks down Achilles' plumes* ^note.

Nes.
Now I begin to relish thy advice;
And I will give a taste of it forthwith
To Agamemnon: go we to him straight,
Two curs shall tame each other; pride alone
† ^noteMust tar the mastiffs on, as 'twere their bone. [Exeunt.

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