|ACT I SCENE I
|Troy. Before Priam's palace.
|[Enter TROILUS armed, and PANDARUS]
|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 that is master of his heart,
|Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none.
|Will this gear ne'er be mended?
|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, fonder than ignorance,
|Less valiant than the virgin in the night
|And skilless as unpractised infancy.
|Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part,
|I'll not meddle nor make no further. He that will
|have a cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding.
|Have I not tarried?
|Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry
|Have I not tarried?
|Ay, the bolting, but you must tarry the leavening.
|Still have I tarried.
|Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word
|'hereafter' the kneading, the making of the cake, the
|heating of the oven and the baking; nay, you must
|stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips.
|Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be,
|Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do.
|At Priam's royal table do I sit;
|And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,--
|So, traitor! 'When she comes!' When is she thence?
|Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw
|her look, or any woman else.
|I was about to tell thee:--when 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,
|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.
|An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's--
|well, go to--there were no more comparison between
|the women: but, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I
|would not, as they term it, praise her: but I would
|somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I
|will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit, but--
|O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,--
|When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd,
|Reply not in how many fathoms deep
|They lie indrench'd. I tell thee I am mad
|In Cressid's love: thou answer'st 'she is fair;'
|Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart
|Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,
|Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand,
|In whose comparison all whites are ink,
|Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure
|The cygnet's down is harsh and spirit of sense
|Hard as the palm of ploughman: this thou tell'st me,
|As 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.
|I speak no more than truth.
|Thou dost not speak so much.
|Faith, I'll not meddle in't. Let her be as she is:
|if she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be
|not, she has the mends in her own hands.
|Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus!
|I have had my labour for my travail; ill-thought on of
|her and ill-thought on of you; gone between and
|between, but small thanks for my labour.
|What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me?
|Because she's kin to me, therefore she's not so fair
|as Helen: an she were not kin to me, she would be as
|fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care
|I? I care not an she were a black-a-moor; 'tis all one to me.
|Say I she is not fair?
|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' the matter.
|Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I
|found it, and there an end.
|[Exit PANDARUS. An alarum]
|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;
|And he's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo.
|As she is stubborn-chaste 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,
|Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood,
|Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar
|Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark.
|[Alarum. Enter AENEAS]
|How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not afield?
|Because not there: this woman's answer sorts,
|For womanish it is to be from thence.
|What news, AEneas, from the field to-day?
|That Paris is returned home and hurt.
|By whom, AEneas?
|Troilus, by Menelaus.
|Let Paris bleed; 'tis but a scar to scorn;
|Paris is gored with Menelaus' horn.
|Hark, what good sport is out of town to-day!
|Better at home, if 'would I might' were 'may.'
|But to the sport abroad: are you bound thither?
|In all swift haste.
|Come, go we then together.