For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, Grasps-in the comer. Welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was! For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, One touch of nature makes the whole world kin— And give to dust that is a little gilt, The present eye praises the present object: Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction. Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. Farewell, my lord: I as your lover speak; The fool slides o'er the ice that you should break. [Exit. Patr. To this effect, Achilles, have I moved you: A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loathed than an effeminate man In time of action. I stand condemned for this: They think, my little stomach to the war, And your great love to me, restrains you thus: Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, And, like a dewdrop from the lion's mane, Be shook to air. longing, An appetite that I am sick withal, To see great Hector in his weeds of peace; To talk with him, and to behold his visage, Even to my full of view. A labour saved! Enter THERSITES. Ther. A wonder! Achil. What? Ther. Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for himself. Achil. How so? Ther. He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector; and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling, that he raves in saying nothing. Achil. How can that be? Ther. Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock, a stride and a stand: ruminates like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning: bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should say, "There were wit in this head, an 't would out :" and so there is; but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not shew without knocking. The man's undone for ever; for if Hector break not his neck i'the combat, he'll break it himself in vain-glory. He knows not me: I said, "Good-morrow, Ajax;" and he replies, Thanks, Agamemnon." What think you of this man, that takes me for the general? He is grown a very land-fish, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! a man may wear it on both sides, like a leather jerkin. Achil. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites. Ther. Who, I? why, he'll answer nobody; he professes not answering; speaking is for beggars; he wears his tongue in his arms. I will put on his presence; let Patroclus make demands to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax. Achil. To him, Patroclus: tell him, I humbly desire the valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarmed to my tent; and to procure safe conduct for his person, of the magnanimous and most illustrious, six-or-seven-times honoured captain-general of the Grecian army, Agamemnon. Do this. Patr. Jove bless great Ajax! Patr. I come from the worthy Achilles,— Patr. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent; Ther. Humph! Patr. And to procure safe conduct from Aga memnon. ACT IV SCENE I.-Troy. A Street. Enter at one side, ENEAS, and Servant with a Ene. Is the prince there in person?- As you, prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business Should rob my bed-mate of my company. Dio. That's my mind too.-Good morrow, lord Eneas. Par. A valiant Greek, Æneas; take his hand: Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told-how Diomed, a whole week by days, Did haunt you in the field. Ene. Health to you, valiant sir, During all question of the gentle truce: But when I meet you armed, as black defiance As heart can think, or courage execute. Dio. The one and other Diomed embraces. Our bloods are now in calm; and so long, health: But when contention and occasion meet, By Jove! I'll play the hunter for thy life, With all my force, pursuit, and policy. Ene. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly With his face backward.-In humane gentleness, Welcome to Troy! Now, by Anchises' life, Welcome, indeed! By Venus' hand, I swear, No man alive can love, in such a sort, The thing he means to kill, more excellently. Dio. We sympathise :-Jove, let Æneas live, If to my sword his fate be not the glory, A thousand complete courses of the sun! But, in mine emulous honour, let him die, With every joint a wound; and that to-morrow! Ene. We know each other well. Dio. We do: and long to know each other worse. Par. This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of. What business, lord, so early? Ene. I was sent for to the king; but why, I know not. Par. His purpose meets you; 't was to bring this Greek To Calchas' house; and there to render him, Ene. Par. He merits well to have her, that doth seek her Par. You are too bitter to your country woman. Dio. She's bitter to her country: hear me, Paris : For every false drop in her bawdy veins A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple Pan. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! a poor capocchia!-hast not slept to-night? would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? A bugbear take him! [Knocking. Cres. Did I not tell you?-'Would he were knocked o' the head! Who's that at door? good uncle, go and see. My lord, come you again into my chamber: You smile, and mock me, as if I meant naughtily. Tro. Ha! ha! Cres. Come, you are deceived; I think of no such thing. [Knocking. How earnestly they knock!-pray you, come in; I would not for half Troy have you seen here. [Exeunt TROILUS and CRESSIDA. Pan. [going to the door]. Who's there? what's the matter? will you beat down the door? How now? what's the matter? Enter ENEAS. Ene. Good morrow, lord, good morrow. Pan. Who's there? my lord Æneas? By my troth, I knew you not: what news with you so early? Ene. Is not prince Troilus here? Pan. Here! what should he do here? Ene. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him : It doth import him much to speak with me. Pan. Is he here, say you? 't is more than I know, I'll be sworn: for my own part, I came in late: What should he do here? Ene. Who! nay, then : Come, come, you'll do him wrong ere you are 'ware: As PANDARUS is going out, enter TROILUS. Ene. By Priam, and the general state of Troy: They are at hand, and ready to effect it. Tro. How my achievements mock me! I will go meet them: and, my lord Æneas, [Exeunt TROILUS and ÆNEAS. Pan. Is't possible? no sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor! the young prince will go mad. A plague upon Antenor! I would they had broke's neck. Enter CRESSIDA. Cres. How now? What is the matter? Who was here? Pan. Ah, ah! Cres. Why sigh you so profoundly? where's my lord? Gone?-Tell me, sweet uncle, what's the matter? Pan. 'Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above! Cres. O, the gods! what's the matter? Pan. Pr'y thee, get thee in: 'would thou hadst ne'er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death: O, poor gentleman! A plague upon Antenor! Cres. Good uncle, I beseech you on my knees, I beseech you, what's the matter? Pan. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art changed for Antenor: thou must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus: 't will be his death; 't will be his bane; he cannot bear it. Cres. O, you immortal gods!—I will not go. Pan. Thou must. Cres. I will not, uncle. I have forgot my father; I know no touch of consanguinity; No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me, Drawing all things to it.-I'll go in, and weep ;- Cres. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks; Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-The same. A Room in PANDARUS' Enter PANDARUS and CRESSIDA. As that which causeth it: how can I moderate it? Pan. Here, here, here he comes.-Ah, sweet ducks! Cres. O Troilus! Troilus! [Embracing him. Pan. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace too: "O heart,"- -as the goodly saying is, O heart, O heavy heart, Why sigh'st thou without breaking? where he answers again, Because thou canst not ease thy smart, There never was a truer rhyme. Let us cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse; we see it, we see it.-How now, lambs? Tro. Cressid, I love thee in so strained a purity, That the blest gods-as angry with my fancy, More bright in zeal than the devotion which Cold lips blow to their deities-take thee from me. Cres. Have the gods envy? Pan. Ay, ay, ay, ay; 't is too plain a case. Cres. And is it true that I must go from Troy? Tro. A hateful truth. |