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!
Helen.
Dear Lord, you are full of fair words.
Pan.
You speak your fair pleasure, sweet Queen.
Fair Prince, here is good broken musick.
Par.
You have broken 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.
Helen.
O, Sir—
Pan.
Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude.
-- 466 --
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?
Helen.
Nay, this shall not hedge us out; we'll hear
you sing, certainly.
Pan.
Well, sweet Queen, you are pleasant with
me; but, marry thus, my Lord.—My dear Lord,
and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus—
Helen.
My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet Lord,—
Pan.
Go to, sweet Queen, go to—
Commends himself most affectionately to you.
Helen.
You shall not bob us out of our melody,
If you do, our melancholy upon your head!
Pan.
Sweet Queen, sweet Queen, that's a sweet
Queen, I'faith—
Helen.
And to make a sweet Lady sad, is a sour
offence.
Pan.
Nay, that shall not serve your turn, that
shall it not in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such
words, no, no. * noteAnd, my Lord, he desires you, that
if the King call for him at supper, you will make his
excuse.
Helen.
My Lord Pandarus,—
Pan.
What says my sweet Queen, my very very
sweet Queen?
Par.
What exploit's in hand, where sups he to-night?
Helen.
Nay, but my Lord,—
Pan.
What says my sweet Queen? My cousin will
fall out with you.
Helen.
You must not know where he sups.
Par.
I'll lay my life, 9 note
with my disposer Cressida.
-- 467 --
Pan.
No, no, no such matter, you are wide; come
your disposer is sick.
Par.
Well, I'll make excuse.
Pan.
Ah, 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.
Helen.
Why, this is kindly done.
Pan.
My niece is horribly in love with a thing you
have, sweet Queen.
Helen.
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.
Helen.
Falling in after falling out, may make them
three.
Pan.
Come, come, I'll hear no more of this. I'll
sing you a song now.
Helen.
Ay, ay, pr'ythee now. By my troth, 1 notesweet
Lord, thou hast a fine fore-head.
Pan.
Ay, you may, you may—
Helen.
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. Love, love, nothing
but love; still love, still more.
For O, love's bow
Shoots buck and doe;
The shaft confounds,
Not that it wounds,
But tickles still the sore.
These lovers cry,
Oh! Oh! they die,
-- 468 --
2 note
Yet that, which seems the wound to kill,
Doth turn, oh! oh! to ha, ha, he:
So dying love lives still.
O ho, a while; but ha, ha, ha;
O ho groans out for ha, ha, ha—hey ho!
Helen.
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 are
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 afield
to-day?
Par.
Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all
the gallantry of Troy. I would fain have arm'd to-day,
but my Nell would not have it so. How chance
my brother Troilus went not?
Helen.
He hangs the lip at something. You know
all, 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.
Helen.
Commend me to your niece.
Pan.
I will, sweet Queen.
[Exit. Sound a Retreat.
Par.
They're come from field. Let us to Priam's Hall,
-- 469 --
To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you
To help unarm our Hector; his stubborn buckles,
With these your white enchanting fingers toucht,
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.
Helen.
'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.
Paris.
Sweet. Above thought I love her.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
