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Enter Pandarus. Cres. A pestilence on him! now will he be mock

ing: I shall have such a life,

Pan. How now, how now? how go maidenheads ? -Here, you inaid! where's my cousin Cressid ? Cres. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking

uncle ! You bring me to do*, and then you flout me too.

Pan. To do what? to do what ?-let her say what: what have I brought you to do? Cres. Come, come; beshrewt your heart! you'll

ne'er be good, Nor suffer others.

Pan. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! a poor capoc. chia [!-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

knock'd 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 deceiv'd, 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.

[Eteunt 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 Æneas.

Æne. Good morrow, lord, good morrow.

. To do is here used in a wanton sense,
+ Ill betide.
An Italian word for poor fool

Pan. Who's there? my lord Æneas ?. By my troth, I knew you not: what news with you so early?

Æne. Is not prince Troilus here?
Pan. Here! what should he do here?

Æne. Come, he is bere, my lord, do not deny him; It doth import him much, to speak with me.

Pan. Is he here, say you? 'tis more than I know, I'll be sworn :-For my own part, I came in late: What should he do here?

Æne. Who !-nay, then:Come, come, you'll do him wrong ere you are'ware: You'll be so true to him, to be false to him: Do not you know of hin, yet go fetch him hither; Go.

A8 Pandarus is going out, enter Troilus.
Tro. How now? what's the matter?

Æne. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,
My matter is so rash*: There is at hand
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,
The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor
Deliver'd to us; and for him forthwith,
Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,
We must give up to Diomedes' hand
The lady Cressida.
Tro.

Is it so concluded ?
Æne. By Priam, and the general state of Troy:
They are at land, and ready to effect it.

Tro. How my achievements mock me!
I will go meet them; and, my lord Æneas,
We met by chance ; you did not find me here.
Æne. Good, good, my lord; the secrets of na-

ture Have not more gift in taciturnity.

[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 !

Hasty,

Enter Cressida. Cres. How now? What is the matter? Who was

here? Pun, 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'ythee, get thee in ; 'Would thou had'st ne'er been born! I knew, thou would'st 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 begone from Troilus; 'twill be his death; 'twill 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,
As the sweet Troilus.- you gods divine !
Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood,
If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,
Do to this body what extremes you can;
But the strong base and building of my

love
Is as the very center of the earth,
Drawing all things to it.—I'll go in, and weep;

Pan. Do, do.
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.

* Sense or feeling of relationship.

SCENE III.

The same. Before Pandarus' house.

Enter Paris, Troilus, Æneas, Deiphobus, Antenor,

and Diomedes,

Par. It is great morning; and the hour prefix'd Of ber delivery to this valiant Greek Comes fast upon :-Good my brother Troilus, Tell you the lady what she is to do, And haste her to the purpose. Tro.

Walk in to her house; I'll bring her to the Grecian presently: And to his hand when I deliver her, Think it an altar; and thy brother Troilus A priest, there offering to it his own heart. (Exit.

Par. I know what 'tis to love; And’would, as I shall pity, I could help! Please you, walk in, my lords.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The same. A room in Pandarus' house,

Enter Pandarus and Cressida,

Pan. Be moderate, be moderate.

Cres. Why tell you me of moderation ? The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, And violenteth in a sense as strong As that which causeth it: How can I moderate it? If I could temporize with my affection, Or brew it to a weak and colder palate, The like allayment could I give my grief :

My love admits no qualifying dross:
No more my grief, in such a precious loss.

Enter Troilus.

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,

By friendship, nor by speaking. 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 strain'd 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; 'tis too plain a case.
Cres. And is it true, that I must go from Troy?
Tro. A hateful truth.
Cres.

What, and from Troilus too?'
Tro. From Troy, and Troilus.
Cres.

Is it possible? Tro. And suddenly; where injury of chance Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents Our lock'd embrasures, strangles our dear vows Even in the birth of our own labouring breath: We two, that with so many thousand sighs Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves With the rude brevity and discharge of one.

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