Troi.
My lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you,
In what place of the field doth Calchas keep?

Ulys.
At Menelaus' Tent, most princely Troilus;
There Diomede doth feast with him to night;
Who neither looks on heav'n, nor on the earth,
But gives all gaze and bent of am'rous view
On the fair Cressid.

Troi.
Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to thee so much,
After you part from Agamemnon's Tent,
To bring me thither?

Ulys.
You shall command me, Sir:
As gently tell me, of what honour was
This Cressida in Troy; had she no lover there,
That wails her absence?

Troi.
O Sir, to such as boasting shew their scars,
A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord?
She was belov'd, she lov'd; she is, and doth:
But, still, sweet love is food for fortune's tooth. [Exeunt.

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