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IN Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece
The princes orgillous, their high blood chaf'd,
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships

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Fraught with the ministers and instruments

Of cruel war: Sixty and nine, that wore
Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay
Put forth toward Phrygia: and their vow is made,
To ransack Troy; within whose strong immures,
The ravish'd Helen, Menelaus' queen,

With wanton Paris sleeps; And that's the quarrel.
To Tenedos they come;

And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge
Their warlike fraughtage: Now on Dardan plains
The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch
Their brave pavilions: Priam's six-gated city
(Dardan, and Thymbria, Ilias, Chetas, Troyan,
And Antenoridas) with massy staples,
And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts,
Sperrs up the sons of Troy.-
Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits,
On one and other side, Trojan and Greek,
Sets all on hazard:—And hither am 1
A prologue armd,-but not in confidence
Of author's pen, or actor's voice; but suited
In like conditions as our argument„-

come

To tell you, fair beholders, that our play

Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, 'Ginning in the middle; starting thence away

To what may be digested in a play.

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Like, or find fault; do as your pleasures are;
Now good, or bad, 'tis but the chance of war.

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HELEN, Wife to Menelaus.

ANDROMACHE, Wife to Hector!

CASSANDRA, daughter to Priam, a Prophetess.
CRESSIDA, daughter to Calchas.

ALEXANDER, Cressida's Servant.

Boy, Page to Troilus.

Servant to Diomed.

Trojan and Greek Soldiers, with other Attendants.

SCENE, Troy, and the Grecian Camp before it.

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CALL here my varlet, 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 gear ne'er be mended ?

Tro. 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, fonder than ignorance;
Less valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skill-less as unpractis'd infancy.
Biij

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Pan.

Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part, I'll not meddle nor make no further. He, that will have a cake out of the wheat, must tarry the grinding.

Troi. Have I not tarry'd

Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the boulting.

Troi. Have I not tarry'd?

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Pan. Ay, the boulting; but you must tarry the leavening.

Troi. Still have I tarry'd.

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 stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips.

must

Troi. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be, Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do.

At Priam's royal table do I sit ;

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And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,-
So, traitor!-when she comes!-When is she thence?
Pan. Well, she look'd yester-night 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 in twain ;
Lest Hector or my father should perceive me,
I have (as when the sun doth light a storm)
Bury'd this sigh in wrinkle of a smile:
But sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming gladness,
Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.

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Pan.

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

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They lie indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad
In Cressid's love: Thou answer'st, She is fair;
Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait; her voice
Handlest in thy discourse: O that her hand!
In whose comparison all whites are ink,
Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense 60
Hard as the palm of ploughman! This thou tell'st me,
As true thou tell'st me, when I say-I love her;
But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,

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 she is: if she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in her own hands.

79

Troi. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus?
Pan. I have had my labour for my travel; ill-

thought

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