PROLOGUE. in Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece With wanton Paris sleeps; and that's the quarrel. And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, Of author's pen or actor's voice; but suited To tell you, fair beholders, that our play Leaps o'er the vaunt1 and firstlings of those broils, Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are; · 1. e. toa uvant what went bercre. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. ACT 1. SCENE I Troy. Before Priam's paluce. Enter TROILUS armed, and PANDARUS. 1 Troi. Call here my varlet; 1 I'll unarm again : Why should I war without the walls of Troy, That find such cruel battle here within? Each Trojan, that is master of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none. Pan. Will this geer? ne'er be mended? Troi. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant; But I am weaker than a woman's tear, Tamer than sleep, fonder3 than ignorance; Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: for 1 Servant. 2 Habit. More foolish. my part, I'll not meddle nor make no farther. He, that will have a cake out of the wheat, must tarry the grinding. Troi. Have I not tarried? Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting. Troi. Have I not tarried? Pan. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening. Troi. Still have I tarried. Pan. Ay, to the leavening; 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 herself, what goddess e'er she be, Doth lesser blench1 at sufferance than I do. At Priam's royal table do I sit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,So, traitor!-when she comes! -When is she thence? Pan. Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else. Troi. I was about to tell thee,-when my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would rive 2 in twain ; Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, I have (as when the sun doth light a storm) Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile : But sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming gladness, Pan. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's, (well, go to) there were no more comparison between the women;-but, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her; but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit; but Troi. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,— When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice: Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seisure me, As true thou tell'st me, when I say—I love her; Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it. Pan. I speak no more than truth. Troi. Thou dost not speak so much. Pan. Faith, I'll not meddle in 't. Let her be as |