Troi.
Dear, trouble not your self; the morn is cold.

Cre.
Then, sweet my lord, I'll call my uncle down:
He shall unbolt the gates.

Troi.
Trouble him not—
To bed, to bed—sleep seal those pretty eyes,
And give as soft attachment to thy senses,
As infants empty of all thought!

Cre.
Good morrow then.

Troi.
I pr'ythee now, to bed.

Cre.
Are you a weary of me?

Troi.
O Cressida! but that the busie day,
Wak'd by the lark, has rous'd the ribald crows,
And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,
I would not from thee.

Cre.
Night hath been too brief.

Troi.
Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays,
Tedious as hell; but flies the grasps of love,
With wings more momentary-swift than thought:
You will catch cold, and curse me.

Cre.
Pr'ythee, tarry—you men will never tarry—
O foolish Cressida—I might have still held off,
And then you would have tarried. Hark, there's one up.

Pan. within]
What's all the doors open here?

Troi.
It is your uncle.

Enter Pandarus.

Cre.
A pestilence on him! now will he be mocking;
I shall have such a life—

Pan.
How now, how now? how go maiden-heads?
Hear you, maid; where's my cousin Cressida?

Cre.
Go hang your self, you naughty mocking uncle:
You bring me to do—and then you flout me too.

Pan.
To do what? to do what? let her say what:
What have I brought you to do?

Cre.

Come, come, beshrew your heart; you'll never be good; nor suffer others.

Pan.

Ha, ha! alas, poor wretch; a poor Capocchia,—(32) ^note hast not slept to night? would he not (a naughty man) let it sleep? a bugbear take him!

Cre.

Did not I tell you?—would, he were knock'd o'th' head!—who's that at door?—good uncle, go and see.—My lord, come you again into my chamber: —you smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.

Troil.

Ha, ha—

Cre.
Come, you are deceived, I think of no such thing.
How earnestly they knock—pray you, come in. [Knock.
I would not for half Troy have you seen here. [Exeunt.

Pan.

Who's there? what's the matter? will you beat down the door? how now? what's the matter?

Æne.
Good morrow, lord, good morrow.

Pan.
Who's there? my lord Æneas? by my troth,
I knew you not; what news with you so early?

Æne.
Is not Prince Troilus here?

Pan.
Here! what should he do here?

Æne.
Come, he is here, my lord, do not deny him.
It doth import him much to speak with me.

Pan.

Is he here, say you? 'tis more than I know, I'll be sworn; for my own part, I came in late: what should he do here?

Æne.

Pho!—nay, then:—come, come, you'll do him wrong, ere y'are aware: you'll be so true to him, to be false to him: do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither, go.

Troi.
How now? what's the matter?

Æne.
My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,
My matter is so rash: there is at hand
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,
The Grecian Diomede, and our Antenor
Deliver'd to us; and for him forthwith,
Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,
We must give up to Diomedes' hand
The lady Cressida.

Troi.
Is it concluded so?

Æne.
By Priam, and the general State of Troy.
They are at hand, and ready to effect it.

Troi.
How my atchievements mock me!
I will go meet them; and (my lord Æneas)
We met by chance, you did not find me here.

Æne.
Good, good, my lord; the secret'st things of Nature(33) ^note

Enter Cressida to Pandarus.

Pan.

Is't possible? no sooner got, but lost: the Devil take Antenor! the young Prince will go mad: a plague upon Antenor! I would, they had broke's neck.

Cre.

How now? what's the matter? who was here?

Pan.

Ah, ah!

Cre.

Why sigh you so profoundly? where's my lord? gone! tell me, sweet uncle, what's the matter?

Pan.

Would, I were as deep under the earth, as I am above!

Cre.

O the Gods! what's the matter?

Pan.

Pr'ythee, get thee in; would, thou hadst ne'er been born: I knew, thou would'st be his death. O poor gentleman! a plague upon Antenor!—

Cre.

Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees, I beseech you, what's the matter?

Pan.

Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone: thou art chang'd for Antenor; thou must go to thy father, and be gone from Troilus: 'twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he cannot bear it.

Cre.
O you immortal Gods! I will not go.

Pan.
Thou must.

Cre.
I will not, uncle: I've forgot my father.
I know no touch of Consanguinity:

No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me,
As the sweet Troilus. O you Gods divine!
Make Cressid's name the very Crown of falshood,
If ever she leave Troilus. Time, Force, and Death,(34) ^note

Pan.
Do, do.

Cre.
Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks,
Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart
With sounding Troilus. I'll not go from Troy. [Exe.

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