Tro.
Call here my varlet; I'll unarm again:
Why should I war without the walls of Troy,
That find such cruel battle here within?
Each Trojan ^note that is master of his heart,
Let him to field; Troilus, alas, hath none!

Pan.
Will this gear ne'er be mended?

Tro.
The Greeks are strong and skilful to their strength,
Fierce to their skill and to their fierceness valiant,
But I am weaker than a woman's tear,
Tamer than sleep ^note, fonder than ignorance,

Less valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skilless as unpractised infancy.

Pan.

Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part, I'll not meddle nor make no ^note farther. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must needs ^note tarry the grinding.

Tro.

Have I not tarried?

Pan.

Ay ^note, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.

Tro.

Have I not tarried?

Pan.

Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.

Tro.

Still have I tarried.

Pan.

Ay, to the leavening; but here's ^note yet in the word ‘hereafter,’ the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven ^note, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you ^note may chance to burn ^note your lips.

Tro.
Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be,
Doth lesser ^note blench at sufferance than I do.
At Priam's royal table do I sit; ^note
And when fair Cressid ^note comes into my thoughts,—
So, traitor!—‘When she comes!’—When is she thence ^note?

Pan.

Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else. ^note

Tro.
I was about to tell thee:—when ^note my heart,
As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain,
Lest Hector or my father should perceive me,
I have, as when the sun doth light a storm ^note,
Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile:

But sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming gladness,
Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.

Pan.

An ^note her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's—well, go to—there were no more comparison between the women: ^note but, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her ^note: but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit, but—

Tro.
O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,—
When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd,
Reply not in how many fathoms ^note deep
They lie indrench'd ^note. I tell thee, I am mad
In Cressid's love: ^note thou answer'st ‘she is fair;’
Pour'st ^note in the open ulcer of my heart ^note
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,
Handlest ^{note note} in thy discourse, O, that her hand, ^note
In whose comparison all whites are ink
Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh and spirit ^note of sense ^note
Hard as the palm of ploughman: ^note this thou tell'st me,
As ^note true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her;
But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me

The knife that made it.

Pan.

I speak no more than truth.

Tro.

Thou dost not speak so much.

Pan.

Faith, I'll not meddle in't ^note. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an ^note she be not, she has the mends in her own hands.

Tro.

Good Pandarus, how now, ^note Pandarus!

Pan.

I have had my labour for my travail; ill-thought on of her, and ill-thought on of you ^note: gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour.

Tro.

What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me?

Pan.

Because she's kin ^note to me, therefore she's not so fair as Helen: an ^{note note} she were not ^note kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday ^note as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? ^note I care not an ^note she were a black-a-moor; 'tis all one to me.

Tro.

Say I she is not fair?

Pan.

I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay behind her father; let her to the Greeks; and so I'll tell her the next time I see her: for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more i' ^note the matter.

Tro.

Pandarus,—

Pan.

Not I.

Tro.

Sweet Pandarus,—

Pan.

Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and there ^note an end.

Tro.
Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds!
Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,
When with your blood you daily paint her thus.
I cannot fight upon this argument;
It is too starved a subject for my sword.
But Pandarus—O gods, how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar ^note;

And he's as tetchy ^note to be woo'd to woo
As she is stubborn-chaste ^note against all suit.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl:
Between our Ilium and where she resides ^note,
Let it be call'd the wild ^note and wandering flood,
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar
Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark. ^noteAlarum. Enter Æneas.

Æne.
How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not afield ^note? ^note

Tro.
Because not there: this woman's answer sorts,
For womanish it is to be from thence.
What news, Æneas, from the field to-day?

Æne.
That Paris is returned home, and hurt.

Tro.
By whom, Æneas?

Æne.
Troilus, by Menelaus.

Tro.
Let Paris bleed: 'tis but a scar to scorn;
Paris is gored with Menelaus' horn. [Alarum.

Æne.
Hark, what good sport is out of town to-day!

Tro.
Better at home, if ‘would I might’ were ‘may.’
But to the sport abroad: are you bound thither?

Æne.
In all swift haste.

Tro.
Come, go we then together. [Exeunt.

^note

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