But sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming gladness,
Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.

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
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 seisure
The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense
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.1

Troi. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus? Pan. I have had my labor for my travel; illthought on of her, and ill-thought on of you: gone between and between, but small thanks for my labor.

Troi. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me?

Pan. Because she is kin to me, therefore she's not so fair as Helen: an she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not, an she were a black-a-moor; 'tis all one to me.

Troi. Say I, she 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 so I'll tell her the next time I see her for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more in the matter.

Troi. Pandarus,

Pan. Not I.

Troi. Sweet Pandarus,

Pan. Pray you, speak no more to me: I wil leave all as I found it, and there an end.

[Exit Pandarus. An alarum.

i.e. she may make the best of a bad bargain.' Steevens.

Troi. Peace, you ungracious clamors! peace, rude sounds!

Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,
When with your blood you daily paint her thus.
I cannot fight upon this argument;

It is too starved 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 tetchy to be woo'd to woo,
As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl:
Between our Ilium, and where she resides,
Jet it be call'd the wild and wandering flood;
Ourself, the merchant; and this sailing Pandar,
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.

Alarum. Enter ENEAS.

En. How now, prince Troilus? wherefore not afield?

Troi. Because not there: this woman's answer

sorts;

For womanish it is to be from thence.

What news, Æneas, from the field to-day?

En. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
Troi. By whom, Æneas?

En.

Troilus, by Menelaus.

Suits.