Handleft in thy DifcourfeO that! her Hand!.
(In whofe Comparison, all Whites are Ink
Writing their own Reproach) to whofe foft feizure
The Cignets Down is harsh, 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 gash that Love hath given me,
The Knife that made it.

Pan. I fpeek no more than Truth.
Trei. Thou doft not fpeak fo much.
Pan. 'Faith, I'll not meddle in't.

Let her be as he is, if the be fair, 'tis the better for her; and the be not, the has the mends in her own hands.

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 small thanks for my labour.

Troi. What art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me? Pan. Becaufe the is Kin to me, therefore the's not fo fair as Helen; and he were not Kin to me, he would be as fair on Friday, as Helen is on Sunday. But what care II care not and the were a Black-a-More, 'tis all one to me, Troi. Say 1, the is not fair?

Pan. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a Fool to ftay 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 speak 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 mult 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 Randarus,

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 Creffid is, what Pandar, and what we:
Her Bed is India, there fhe 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.

Anc. How now Prince Troilus?

Wherefore not i'th' Field?

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

What News, Æneas, from the Field to day?
Ane. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.

Trei. By whom, Æneas?

Ane. Troilus, by Menelaus.

Troi. Let Paris bleed, 'tis but a scar 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 swift 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, whofe 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,

Ser. The noife 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 ftands 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 melancholy 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.

Gre. But how fhould this Man (that makes me smile) 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?

Cre. 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 she?

Cre. Hedor was gone, but Helen was not up.

Pan. En fo; Hector was stirring 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 comparifon.

Pan. What not between Troilus and Hector? do you know a Man if you see 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 say,

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

Cre. He is not Hector.

gone bare-foot to India.

Pan. Himfelf no? he's not himself, would a were him. felf; well, the Gods are above, time must friend or end; well, Troilus, well, I would my Heart were in her Bono, Hector is not a better Man than Troilus. Cre. Excufe me.

dy

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 shall tell me another Hector fhall not have his

Cre. He fhall 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 fo'tis I muft confefs) not brown neither

Pan. Faith to fay Truth, brown and not brown.
Gre. To fay the Truth, true and not true.
Pan. She prais'd his Complexion above Paris.
Cre. Why Paris hath Colour enough.

Pan. She has.

Cre. Then Troilus fhould have too much; if the prais'd him above, his Complexion is higher than his, he having Colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a Praife for a good Complexion. I had as lieve Helen's golden Tongue had commanded Troilus for a copper Nofe.

Pan. I fwear to you,

I think Helen loves him better than Paris.

Cre. Then he's a meny Greek indeed.

Pan. Nay, I am fure the doe. She came to him th'other Day into the compalt Window, and you know he has not paft three or four Hairs on his Chin.

Cre. Indeed a Tapfters Arithmetic may foon bring his particulars therein to a Total.

Pan. Why he is very Young, and yet will he within three Pound lift as much as his Brother Hector.

Cre. Is he fo young a Man, and fold a Lifter? Pan. But to prove to you that Helen loves him, the came and puts me her white Hand to his cloven Chin. Cre. Funo have Mercy, how came it Cloven?

Pan. Why, you know 'tis dimpled.

I think his fmiling becomes him better, than any Man in all Phrigia.

Cre. Oh, he fmiles valiantly.

Pan. Does he not?

Cre. Oh yes, and 'twere a Cloud in Autumn.

Pan. Why go to then

Helen loves Troilus.

Cre. Troilus will ftand to the

Preof, if you'll prove it fo.

but to prove to you that

Pan. Troilus? why he cfteems her no more, than I efteem an addle Egg.

Cre. If you love an addle Egg, as well as you love an idle Head, you would eat Chickens 'th' fhell.

Pan. I cannot chufe but Laugh to think how the tickled his Chin; indeed the has a Marvel's white Hard, I muit needs confefs.

Cre.