Æne.
Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field:
^{3 note}Never go home; here starve we out the night. Enter Troilus.

Troi.
Hector is slain.

All.
Hector?—the gods forbid!

Troi.
He's dead; and at the murderer's horse's tail,
In beastly sort, dragg'd through the shameful field.—
Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed!
Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy^{4 note}

!
I say, at once! let your brief plagues be mercy,
And linger not our sure destructions on!

Æne.
My lord, you do discomfort all the host.

Troi.
You understand me not, that tell me so:
I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death;
But dare all imminence, that gods, and men,
Address their dangers in. Hector is gone!
Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?
Let him, that will a screech-owl aye be call'd,
Go in to Troy, and say there—Hector's dead:
There is a word will Priam turn to stone;
Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,
Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word,
Scare Troy out of itself. But, march, away:
Hector is dead; there is no more to say.
Stay yet;—You vile abominable tents,

Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,
Let Titan rise as early as he dare,
I'll through and through you!—And thou, great-siz'd coward!
No space of earth shall sunder our two hates;
I'll haunt thee, like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy thoughts.—
Strike a free march to Troy!—with comfort go;
Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe. [Exeunt Æneas, &c. Enter Pandarus.

Pan.
Do you hear, my lord; do you hear?

Troi.
^{5 note}Hence, broker lacquey! ignomy and shame
Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name! [Exit Troilus.

Pan.

A goodly med'cine for my aching bones!—
Oh world! world! world! thus is the poor agent despis'd!

O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a' work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so ^{6 note}lov'd, and the performance so loath'd? what verse for it? what instance for it?—Let me see:—

As many as be here of pander's hall,
Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's fall:
Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,
Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.
Brethren, and sisters, of the hold-door trade,
Some two months hence my will shall here be made:

It should be now, but that my fear is this—
^{7 note}

^note