Cres. Why sigh you so profoundly? where's

gone?

Tell me, sweet uncle, what's the matter?

my lord

Pan. 'Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above!

Cres. O the gods! -what's the matter?

Pan. Pr'ythee, get thee in; 'Would thou had'st ne'er been born! I knew, thou would'st be his death: -O poor gentleman! - A plague upon Antenor!

Cres. Good uncle, I beseech you on my knees,

I beseech you, what's the matter?

Pan. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art changed for Antenor: thou must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus; 'twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he cannot bear it.

Cres. O you immortal gods! I will not go.
Pan. Thou must.

Cres. I will not, uncle: I have forgot my father;
I know no touch of consanguinity;5

No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me,
As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine!
Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood,
If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,
Do to this body what extremes you can;

But the strong base and building of my love

very center of the earth,

Drawing all things to it.

Pan. Do, do.

I'll go in, and weep;

Cres. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised

cheeks;

Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy.

[Exeunt.

I know no touch of consanguinity;] Touch of consanguinity is sense or feeling of relationship.

SCENE III.

The same. Before Pandarus' House.

Enter PARIS, TROILUS, ENEAS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, and DIOMEDES.

Par. It is great morning; and the hour prefix'd Of her delivery to this valiant Greek

Comes fast upon:- Good my brother Troilus,

Tell you the lady what she is to do,

And haste her to the purpose.

Tro.

Walk in to her house;

I'll bring her to the Grecian presently:
And to his hand when I deliver her,

Think it an altar; and thy brother Troilus
A priest, there offering to it his own heart.
Par. I know what 'tis to love;

And 'would, as I shall pity, I could help! -
Please you, walk in, my lords.

SCENE IV.

[Exit.

[Exeunt.

The same. A Room in Pandarus' House.

Enter PANDARUS and CRESSIDA.

Pan. Be moderate, be moderate.

Cres. Why tell you me of moderation?

The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste,

And violenteth in a sense as strong

As that which causeth it: How can I moderate it?

If I could temporize with my affection,

Or brew it to a weak and colder palate,
The like allayment could I give my grief:
My love admits no qualifying dross:

No more my grief, in such a precious loss.

6

great morning;] Grand jour; a Gallicism.

Enter TROIlus.

Pan. Here, here, here he comes. Ah sweet ducks! Cres. O Troilus! Troilus! [Embracing him.

Pan. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace too: O heart, as the goodly saying is,

o heart, o heavy heart,

Why sigh'st thou without breaking?

where he answers again.

Because thou canst not ease thy smart,

By friendship, nor by speaking.

There never was a truer rhyme. Let us cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse; we see it, we see it. How lambs ?

now,

Tro. Cressid, I love thee in so strain'd a purity,
That the blest gods-as angry with my fancy,
More bright in zeal than the devotion which
Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me.
Cres. Have the gods envy?

-

Pan. Ay, ay, ay, ay; 'tis too plain a case.

Cres. And is it true, that I must go from Troy?

Tro. A hateful truth.

Cres.

What, and from Troilus too?

Tro. From Troy, and Troilus.
Cres.

Is it possible?

Tro. And suddenly; where injury of chance
Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by
All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips
Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents

Our lock'd embrazures, strangles our dear vows
Even in the birth of our own labouring breath:
We two, that with so many thousand sighs
Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves
With the rude brevity and discharge of one.
Injurious time now, with a robber's haste,
Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how:
As many farewells as be stars in heaven,

With distinct breath and consign'd kisses' to them,
He fumbles up into a loose adieu;

And scants us with a single famish'd kiss,

Distasted with the salt of broken tears. 8

Ene. [within.] My lord! is the lady ready?

Tro. Hark! you are call'd: Some say, the Genius so Cries, Come! to him that instantly must die, Bid them have patience; she shall come anon.

Pan. Where are my tears? rain, to lay this wind, or my heart will be blown up by the root?

Cres. I must then to the Greeks?

[Exit PANDArus.

No remedy.

Tro.
Cres. A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks!
When shall we see again?

Tro. Hear me, my love: Be thou but true of

heart,

Cres. I true! how now? what wicked deem is this? Tro. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,

For it is parting from us :

I speak not, be thou true, as fearing thee;

For I will throw my glove to death' himself,
That there's no maculation in thy heart:

But, be thou true, say I, to fashion in
My sequent protestation; be thou true,
And I will see thee.

Cres. O, you shall be expos'd, my lord, to dangers As infinite as imminent! but, I'll be true.

7 consign'd kisses-] Consign'd means sealed; from consigno, Lat.

› Distasted with the salt of broken tears.] i. e. of tears to which we are not permitted to give full vent, being interrupted and suddenly torn from each other. The poet was probably thinking of broken sobs, or broken slumbers.

9—

what wicked deem-] Deem (a word now obsolete) signifies, opinion, surmise.

For I will throw my glove to death—] That is, I will challenge death himself in defence of thy fidelity.

Tro. And I'll grow friend with danger. Wear this

sleeve.

Cres. And you this glove.

When shall I see you? Tro. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels,

To give thee nightly visitation.

But yet, be true.

Cres.

O heavens ! - be true, again?

Tro. Hear why I speak it, love;

The Grecian youths are full of quality;

They're loving, well compos'd, with gifts of nature flow

ing,

And swelling o'er with arts and exercise;

How novelty may move, and parts with person,

Alas, a kind of godly jealousy

(Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin,)

Makes me afeard.

Cres.

O heavens ! you love me not.

Tro. Die I a villain then!

In this I do not call your faith in question,
So mainly as my merit: I cannot sing,

Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk,
Nor play at subtle games; fair virtues all,

To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant:
But I can tell, that in each grace of these

There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil,
That tempts most cunningly: but be not tempted.
Cres. Do you think, I will?

Tro. No.

But something may be done, that we will not:
And sometimes we are devils to ourselves,

When we will tempt the frailty of our powers,
Presuming on their changeful potency.
Ene. [within.] Nay, good my lord,

Tro.

Come, kiss; and let us part.

Par. [within.] Brother Troilus!

9 the high lavolt,] The lavolta was a dance.