Helen, attended
Pan.
Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair
company; fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide
them!—especially to you, fair queen! fair thoughts be
your fair pillow!
Hel.
Dear lord, you are full of fair words.
Pan.
You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen.—
Fair prince, here is good broken music.
Par.
You have broke it, cousin: and, by my life,
you shall make it whole again; you shall piece it out
with a piece of your performance:—Nell, he is full of
harmony.
Pan.
Truly, lady, no.
Hel.
O, sir,—
Pan.
Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude.
Par.
Well said, my lord! well you say so in fits.
Pan.
I have business to my lord, dear queen:—My
lord, will you vouchsafe me a word?
Hel.
Nay, this shall not hedge us out; we'll hear you
sing, certainly.
-- 201 --
Pan.
Well, sweet queen, you are pleasant with me.
—But (marry) thus, my lord.—My dear lord, and most
esteemed friend, your brother Troilus—
Hel.
My lord Pandarus; honey-sweet lord,—
Pan.
Go to, sweet queen, go to:—commends himself
most affectionately to you;—
&blquo;Hel.
&blquo;You shall not bob us out of our melody; if
you do, our melancholy upon your head!&brquo;
&blquo;Pan.
&blquo;Sweet queen, sweet queen; that's a sweet
queen, i'faith.&brquo;
&blquo;Par.
&blquo;And to make a sweet lady sad, is a sour offence.&brquo;
&blquo;Hel.
&blquo;Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall
it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words;
no, no.&brquo;
&blquo;Pan.
&blquo;And, my lord, he desires you, that, if the
king call for him at supper, you will make his excuse.&brquo;
&blquo;Hel.
&blquo;My lord Pandarus,—&brquo;
&blquo;Pan.
&blquo;What says my sweet queen; my very very
sweet queen?&brquo;
Par.
What exploit's in hand? where sups he to-night?
Hel.
Nay, but my lord,—
Pan.
What says my sweet queen?—You must not
know where he sups.
Par.
I'll lay my life, with my disposer, Cressida.
Pan.
No, no, no such matter, you are wide; come,
your disposer is sick.
Par.
Well, I'll make excuse.
Pan.
Ay, good my lord. Why should you say—
Cressida? no, your poor disposer's sick.
Par.
I spy—
Pan.
You spy! what do you spy?—Come, give me
an instrument, now sweet queen.
Hel.
Why, this is kindly done.
Pan.
My niece is horribly in love with a thing you
have, sweet queen.
Hel.
She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my lord
Paris.
Pan.
He! no, she'll none of him; they two are
twain.—My cousin will fall out with you.
Hel.
Falling in, after falling out, may make them
three.
-- 202 --
Pan.
Come, come, I'll hear no more of this; I'll sing
you a song now.
Hel.
Ay, ay, pr'ythee now. By my troth, sweet
lord, thou hast a fine forehead.
Pan.
Ay, you may, you may.
Hel.
Let thy song be love: this love will undo us all.
Oh, Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!
Pan.
Love! ay, that it shall, i'faith.
Par.
Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.
Pan.
In good troth, it begins so.
SONG.
[I.]
Love, love, nothing but love, still more!
For, O, love's bow
Shoots buck and doe:
The shaft confounds
Not that it wounds,
But tickles still the sore.
II.
These lovers cry—Oh, oh, they die!
Yet that which seems the wound to kill,
Doth turn oh oh to ha ha ha;
So dying love lives still:
Oh oh a while, but ha ha ha;
Oh oh groans out for ha ha ha;
Hey ho* note!
Hel.
In love, i'faith, to the very tip of the nose.
Par.
He eats nothing but doves, love; and that
breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts,
and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.
Pan.
Is this the generation of love? hot blood, hot
thoughts, and hot deeds,—why, they are vipers: Is love
a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who's a-field today?
Par.
Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all
the gallantry of Troy: I would fain have arm'd to-day,
-- 203 --
but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my
brother Troilus went not?
Hel.
He hangs the lip at something;—you know all,
my lord Pandarus.
Pan.
Not I, honey-sweet queen.—I long to hear how
they sped to-day.—You'll remember your brother's excuse?
Par.
To a hair.
Pan.
Farewel, sweet queen.
Hel.
Commend me to your niece.
Pan.
I will, sweet queen.
[Exit. Retreat sounded.
Par.
They're come from field: let us to Priam's hall,
To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you
To help unarm our Hector: his stubborn buckles,
With these your white enchanting fingers touch'd,
Shall more obey, than to the edge of steel,
Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more
Than all the island kings, disarm great Hector.
Hel.
'Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris:
Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty
Gives us more palm in beauty than we have;
Yea, over-shines ourself.
Par.
Sweet, above thought I love thee.
[Exeunt.
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
