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The Cignets Downe is harsh, and spirit of Sense

Hard as the palme of Plough-man. This thou tel'st me;
As true thou tel'st me, when I say I love her:

But saying thus, instead of Oyle and Balme,

Thou lai'st in every gash that love hath given me,

The Knife that made it.

Pan. I speake no more then truth.

Troy. Thou do'st not speake so much.

Pan. Faith, Ile not meddle in't Let her be as shee is, if she be faire, 'tis the better for her: and she be not, she ha's the mends in her owne hands.

Troy. Good Pandarus: How now Pandarus?

Pan. I have had my Labour for my travell, ill thought on of her, and ill thought on of you; Gone betweene and betweene, but small thankes for my labour.

Troy. What art thou angry Pandarus? what with me?

Pan. Because she's Kinne to me, therefore shee's not so faire as Helen, and she were not kin to me, she would be as faire on Friday, as Helen is on Sunday. But what care 1? I care not and she were a Black-a Moore, 'tis all one to me.

Troy. Say I she is not faire ?

Pan. I doe not care whether you doe or no.

Shee's a Foole

to stay behinde her Father: Let her to the Greeks, and so Ile tell her the next time I see her: for my part, Ile meddle nor make no more i'th'matter.

Pan. Not I.

Troy. Pandarus ?

Troy. Sweete Pandarus.

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

Sound Alarum.

Exit Pand.

Tro. Peace you ungracious Clamors, peace rude sounds,
Fooles on both sides, Helen must needes be faire,
When with your bloud you daily paint her thus.

I cannot fight upon this Argument :

It is too starv'd 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 teachy to be woo'd to woe,
As she is stubborne, chast, against all suite.
Tell me Apollo for thy Daphnes Love
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we:
Her bed is India, there she lies, a Pearle,
Between our Ilium, and where shee recides
Let it be cald the wild and wandring flood,
Our selfe the Merchant, and this sayling Pandar,
Our doubtfull hope, our convoy and our Barke.

Alarum. Enter Æneas.

Ene. How now Prince Troylus ?

Wherefore not a field?

Troy. Because not there; this womans answer sorts,

For womanish it is to be from thence:

What newes Æneas from the field to day?

Ene. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.

Troy. By whom Æneas?


Troylus by Menelaus.

Troy. Let Paris bleed, 'tis but a scar to scorne,

Paris is gor'd with Menelaus horne.

Ene. Harke what good sport is out of Towne to day.

Troy. Better at home, if would I might were may: But to the sport abroad, are you bound thither?

Ene. In all swift hast.


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Whose height commands as subject all the vaile,
To see the battell: Hector whose pacience,
Is as a Vertue fixt, to day was mov'd:

He chides Andromache and strooke his Armorer,
And like as there were husbandry in Warre
Before the Sunne rose, hee was harnest lyte,
And to the field goe's he; where every flower
Did as a Prophet weepe what it forsaw,

In Hectors wrath.


What was his cause of anger?

Man. The noise goe's this;

There is among the Greekes,

A Lord of Trojan blood, Nephew to Hedor,

They call him Ajax.


Good; and what of him?

Man. They say he is a very man per se and stands alone. Cre. So do all men, unlesse they are drunke, sicke, or have no legges.

Man. This man Lady, hath rob'd many beasts of their particular additions, he is as valiant as the Lyon, churlish as the Beare, slow as the Elephant: a man into whom nature hath so crowded humors, that his valour is crusht into folly, his folly sauced with discretion: there is no man hath a vertue, that he hath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint, but he carries some staine of it. He is melancholy without cause, and merry against the haire, hee hath the joynts of every thing, but every thing so out of joynt, that hee is a gowtie Briareus, many hands and no use; or purblinded Argus, all eyes and no sight.

Cre. But how should this man that makes me smile, make Hector angry?

Man. They say he yesterday cop'd Hector in the battell and stroke him downe, the disdaind & shame whereof, hath ever since kept Hector fasting and waking.

Enter Pandarus.

Cre. Who comes here?

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Cre. Hectors a gallant man.

Man. As may be in the world Lady.

Pan. What's that? what's that?

Cre. Good morrow Uncle Pandarus.

Pan. Good morrow Cozen Cressid: what do you talke of? good morrow Alexander: how do you Cozen? when were you at Illium?

Cre. This morning Uncle.

Pan. What were you talking of when I came ? Was Hector arm'd and gon ere yea came to Illium? Hellen was not up? was she?

Cre. Hector was gone but Hellen was not up?
Pan. E'ene so; Hector was stirring early.

Cre. That were we talking of, and of his anger.
Pan. Was he angry?

Cre. So he saies here.

Pan. True he was so; I know the cause too, heele lay about him to day I can tell them that, and there's Troylus will not come farre behind him, let them take heede of Troylus; I can tell them that too.

Cre. What is he angry too?

Pan. Who Troylus ?

Troylus is the better man of the two.

Cre. Oh Jupiter; there's no comparison.

Pan. What not betweene Troylus and Hector? do you know

a man if you see him?

Cre. I, if I ever saw him before and knew him.

Pan. Well I say Troylus is Troylus.

Cre. Then you say as I say,

For I am sure he is not Hector.

Pan. No nor Hector is not Troylus in some degrees.
Cre. 'Tis just, to each of them he is himselfe.
Pan. Himselfe alas poore Troylus I would he were.
Cre. So he is.

Pan. Condition I had gone bare-foote to India.

Cre. He is not Hector.

Pan, Himselfe ? no? hee's not himselfe, would a were himselfe: well, the Gods are above, time must friend or end: well Troylus well, I would my heart were in her body; no, Hector is not a better man then Troylus.

Cre. Excuse me.

Pan. He is elder.

Cre. Pardon me, pardon me.

Pan. Th'others not come too't, you shall tell me another tale when th'others come too't: Hedor shall not have his will this yeare.

Cre. He shall not neede it if he have his owne.

Pan. Nor his qualities.

Cre. No matter.

Pan. Nor his beautie.

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

Pan. You have no judgement Neece; Hellen her selfe swore th'other day that Troylus for a browne favour (for so 'tis I must confesse) not browne neither.

Cre. No, but browne.

Pan. Faith to say truth, browne and not browne.

Cre. To say the truth, true and not true.

Pan. She prais'd his complexion above Paris.
Cre. Why Paris hath colour inough.

Pan. So he has.

Cre. Then Troylus should have too much, if she prais'd him above, his complexion is higher then his, he having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a good complexion, I had as lieve Hellens golden tongue had commended Troylus for a copper nose.

Pan. I sweare to you,

I thinke Hellen loves him better then Paris.

Cre. Then shee's a merry Greeke indeed.

Pan. Nay I am sure she does, she came to him th'other day

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