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Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: For my Part, I'll not meddle nor make any farther. He that will have a Cake out of the Wheat, muft needs tarry the Grinding.

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Troi. Have I not tarried?

Pan. Ay, the Grinding; but you must tarry the Boulting. Troi. Have I not tarried?

Pan. Ay, the Boulting; but you muft tarry the Leav'ning, Troi. Still have I tarried.

Pan. Ay, to the Leav'ning: 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.

Troi. Patience her felf, what Goddess e'er the be,
Doth leffer blench at Sufferance, than I do :
At Priam's Royal Table I do fit;

And when fair Creffid comes into my Thoughts,

So, Traitor!When fhe comes, when fhe is thence
Pan. Well,

She look'd yesternight fairer than ever I faw her look,
Or any Woman elfe.

Trei. I was about to tell thee, when my Heart,
As wedged with a figh, would rive in twain,
Left Hector, or my Father fhould perceive me,
I have (as when the Sun doth light a Storm)
Buried this figh, in wrinkle of a smile:

But Sorrow, that is couch'd in feeming Gladness,
Is like that Mirth Fate turns to fudden Sadnefs.

Pan. And her Hair were not fomewhat darker than Helen's well-go to, there were no more Comparison between the Women. But for my part the is my Kinfwoman, I would not (as they term it) praise it- -but I would fome I did: I will not

Body had heard her talk yefterday, as difpraife your Sifter Caffandra's Wit, but

Troi. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus-
When I do tell thee, there my Hopes lye drown'd,
Reply not in how many Fathoms deep
They lye intrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad
In Creffid's Love. Thou anfwer'ft, fhe is Fair,
Pour'ft in the open Ulcer of my Heart,

Her Eyes, her Hair, her Cheek, her Gate, her Voice,

Handleft

Handleft in thy Difcourfe-O that! her Hand!
(In whofe Comparifon, all Whites are Ink
Writing their own Reproach) to whofe foft feizure
The Cignets Down is harfh, and Spirit of Senfe
Hard as the Palm of Ploughman. This thou tell'ft me;
As true thou tell'ft me; when I fay I love her:
But faying thus, inftead of Oil and Balm,

Thou lay'ft in every gafh that Love hath given me,
The Knife that made it.

Pan. I fpeek no more than Truth.

Troi. Thou doft not speak fo much. Pan. 'Faith, I'll not meddle in't. if the be fair, 'tis the better for her; has the mends in her own hands.

Let her be as fhe is, and the be not, the

Troi. Good Pandarus; how now, Pandarus?

Pan. I have had my labour for my travel, ill thought on of her, and ill thought on of you: Gone between and be tween, but fmall thanks for my labour.

Troi. What art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me? Pan. Because the is Kin to me, therefore fhe's not fo fair as Helen; and he were not Kin to me, fhe would be as fair on Friday, as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not and the were a Black-a-More, 'tis all one to me.

Troi. Say I, he 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 fo I'll tell her the next time I fee her for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more i'th' matter,

Troi. Pandarus.

Pan. Not I.

Troi. Sweet Pandarus

Pan. Pray you fpeak no more to me, I will leave all as I found it, and there's an end.

[Exit Pandarus, Sound Alarum

Troi. Peace, you ungracious Clamours, peace rude Sounds Fool, on both fides, Helen muft needs be fair,

When with your Blood you daily paint her thus,

I cannot fight upon this Argument,

It is too ftarv'd a Subject for my Sword:

But Pandarus-O Gods! how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Creffid, but by Pandarus,

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And

And he's as teachy to be woo'd to woe,
And she is stubborn, chaft, against all fute.'
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's Love,
What Crefid is, what Pandar, and what we:
Her Bed is India, there she lyes, a Pearl,
Between our Ilium, and where the refides
Let it be call'd the mild and wandring Flood,
Our felf the Merchant, and this failing Pandar
Our doubtful Hope, our Convoy, and our Bark.
Alarum.
Enter Æneas.

Ene. How now Prince Troilus?

Wherefore not i'th' Field?

Troi. Because not there; this Woman's answer forts,'
For womanish it is to be from thence :

What News, Æneas, from the Field to day?
Ene. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
Troi. By whom, Æneas?

Ane. Troilus, by Menelaus.

Troi. Let Paris bleed, 'tis but a fear to Scorn.

Paris is gor'd with Menelaus Horn.

[Alarum, Ane. Hark, what good Sport is out of Town to day? Troi. Better at home, if Would I might, were Mayare you bound thither?

But to the Sport abroad

Ene. In all fwift hafte.

Troi. Come, go we then together.

Enter Creffida and a Servant.

Cre. Who were thofe went by?

Ser. Queen Hecuba and Helen.
Cre. And whither go they?

Ser. Up to the Eastern Tower,

Whose height commands as fubject all the Vale,
To fee the Battel; Hector, whose Patience,
Is as a Virtue fix'd, to day was mov'd:
He chid Andromache, and ftruck his Armorer,
And like as there were Husbandry in War,
Before the Sun rofe, he was harnest light,
And to the Field goes he; where ev'ry Flower
Did as a Prophet weep what it forefaw,
In Hector's Wrath.

Cre. What was his caufe of Anger?

[Exeunt.

Ser.

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Ser. The noise goes this;

There is among the Greeks,

A Lord of Trojan Blood, Nephew to Hector,
They call him Ajax.

Cre. Good; and what of him?

Ser. They fay he is a very Man per fe, and stands alone. Cre. So do all Men, unless they are drunk, fick, or have no Legs.

Ser. This Man, Lady, hath robb'd many Beafts of their particular Additions, he is.as valiant as the Lyon, churlish as the Bear, flow as the Elephant; a Man into whom Nature hath fo crouded Humours, that his Valour is crusht into Folly, his Folly fauced with Difcretion: There is no Man hath a Virtue, that he hath not a Glimpfe of, nor any Man an Attaint, but he carries fome Stain of it. He is melancho ly without Caufe, and merry against the Hair; he hath the Joints of every thing, but every thing fo out of Joint, that he is a gouty Briareus, many Hands and no ufe; or purblinded Argus, all Eyes and no Sight,

Cre. But how fhould this Man (that makes me fmile) make Hector angry?

Ser. They fay, he Yefterday cop'd Hector in the Battel and ftruck him down, the Difdain and Shame whereof hath ever fince kept Hector fafting and waking.

Enter Pandarus.

Cre. Who comes here?

Ser. Madam, your Uncle Pandarus.

Cre. Hector's a gallant Man.

Ser. As may be in the World, Lady.
Pan. What's that? what's that?

Cre. Good morrow, Uncle Pandarus.

Pan. Good morrow, Coufin Creffid: what do you talk of? good morrow, Alexander; how do you, Coufin? when were you at Illium? +

Ere. This Morning, Uncle.

Pan. What were you talking of, when I came? Was Hector arm'd and gone, e're ye came to Ilium? Helen was not up? was fhe?

Cre. Helor was gone, but Helen was not up.
Pan. En fo; Hector was ftirring early.

Cre. That were we talking of, and of his Anger.

Pan.

Pan. Was he angry?

Cre. So he fays here.

Pan. True, he was fo; I know the Caufe too, he'll lay about him to Day I can tell them that; and there's Troilus will not come far behind him, let them take heed of Troi lus; I can tell them that too.

Cre. What is he angry too?

Pan. Who, Troilus?

Troilus is the better Man of the two.

Cre. Oh Jupiter; there's no comparison.

Pan. What not between Troilus and Hector? do you know a Man if you fee him?

Cre. Ay, if I ever faw him before, and knew him.
Pan. Well, I fay Troilus is Troilus.

Cre. Then you fay, as I fay,

For I am fure he is not Hector.

Pan. No, nor Hector is not Troilus, in fome degrees.
Cre. 'Tis just to each of them, he is himself.

Pan. Himfelf? alas poor Troilus? I would he were.
Cre. So he is.

Pan. Condition I had gone bare-foot to India.
Cre. He is not Hector.

Pan. Himfelf no? he's not himfelf, would a were himfelf; well, the Gods are above, time muft friend or end; well, Troilus, well, I would my Heart were in her Body no, Hector is not a better Man than Troilus.

Cre. Excufe me.

Pan. He is Elder.

Cre. Pardon me, pardon me. Pan. Th'other's not come to't, Tale when th'other's come to't: Wit this Year.

you fhall tell me another Hector fhall not have his

Cre. He shall not need it, if he have his own.

Pan. Nor his Qualities.

Cre. No matter.

Pan. Nor his Beauty.

Cre. 'Twould not become him, his own's better.

Pan. You have no Judgment, Neice; Helen her felf (wore th'other Day, that Troilus for a brown Favour, (for focis I must confefs) not brown neither

Cre. No, but brown.

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