Imatges de pàgina

haft not nept to-night? would be hot (a naughty man) let it neep? a bug-bear take him!

[One knocks. Cre. Did I not tell you ? — would he were knock'd o'ch' head who's that at door? good uncle, go and see. · My Lord, come you again into my chamber : you smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.

Troi. Ha ha!

Cre. Come, you are deceived, I think of no such thing. How earnestly they knock — pray you come in. [Knock. I would not for half Troy have you seen here. [Ēxeunt.

Pan. Who's there? what's the matter? will you beat down the door ? how now? what's the matter?


Enter Æneas.
Æne. Good-morrow, Lord, good-morrow.

Pan. Who's there ? my Lord Eneas ? by my troth,
I knew you not ; what news with you so early?

Æne. Is not Prince Troilus here?
Pan. Here! what should he do here?

Æne. Come, he is here, my Lord, do not deny him :
It doch import him much to speak with me.

Pan. Is he here, say you ? 'tis more than I know, I'H be sworn; for my own part, I came in late: what should he do here?

Æne. Pho!— nay, then : — come, come, you'll do him wrong, ere y'are aware: you'll be so true to him, to be false to him: do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither, go.

[As Pandarus is going out,

Enter Troilus.
Troi. How now, what's the matter?
Æne. My Lord, I scarce have leifure to falute you,
My matter is so harsh : there is at hand
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,
The Grecian Diomede, and our Antenor
Deliver'd to us, and for him forthwith,


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Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,
We must give up to Diomedes' hand
'The Lady Cressida.

Troi: 4' Is it so concluded ?

Æne. By Priam, and the general state of Troy. They are at hand, and ready to effect it.

Troi. How my archievements mock me! I will go meet them; and (my Lord Æneas) We met by chance, you did not find me here. [cures!

Æne. Good, good, my Lord ; the s'secretest of naHave not more gift in caciturnity.



Enter Cressida to Pandarus. Pan. Is’t possible ? no fooner got, but lost ? the devil take Antenor! the young Prince will go mad : a plague upon Antenor ! I would they had broke's neck.

Cre. How now? what's the matter? who was here? Pan. Ah ! ah!

Cre. Why sigh you so profoundly? where's my Lord? gone! tell me, sweet uncle, what's the matter ?

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

Cre. O the Gods! what's the matter?

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

Cre. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I befeech you, what's the matter?

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

Cre. O you immortal Gods! I will not go.
Pan. Thou must.
Cre. I will not, uncle : I've forgot my father. .

I know 4. Is it concluded" fo ? 5 secrets of Nature or secret't things of Nature

I know no touch of consanguinity :
No kin, no love, no blood, no soul fo near me,
As the sweet Troilus. O you Gods divine!
Make Crefid's name the very crown of falshood,
If ever the leave Troilus. Time and death,
Do to this body what extreams you can ;
But the strong base and building of my love
Is as the very centre of the earth,
Drawing all to it. I'll go in and weep,
Pan. Do, do.

Cre. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised
Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart
With sounding Troilus. I'll not go from Troy. [Exeunt.

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Before Pandarus’s House. Enter Paris, Troilus, Æneas, Deiphobus, Antenor,

and Diomedes.
Par. IT is great morning, and the hour prefixe

Of her delivery to this valiant Greek
Comes faft upon us : good my brother Troilus,
Tell you the Lady what she is to do,
And haste her to the purpose.

Troi. Walk into 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 heart.

Par. I know what 'tis to love,
And would, as I shall picy, I could help!
Please you walk in, my Lords.



Pan. B Cre. Why tell you me of moderation ?

An Apartment in Pandarus's House.

Enter Pandarus and Cresfida.

E moderate, be moderate.
The grief is fine, full, perfect that I taste,
And in its sense is no less strong, than 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,

Enter Troilus.
No more my grief, in such a precious loss.

Pan. Here, here, here he comes, -a, sweet duck! -
Cre, O Troilus, Troilus !

[too : Pan. What a pair of spectacles is here! let me embrace O beart, (as the goodly saying is ;)

O beart, O heavy beart,

Wby Sighift thou without breaking ? where he answers again;

Because thou canst not ease thy smart,

By friendship, nor by Speaking. There was never 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 now, lambs ?

Troi. Cressid, I love thee in so strange a purity,
That the bleft Gods, as angry with my fancy,
(More bright in zeal than the devotion which
Cold lips blow to their deities) take thee from me.
Cre. Have the Gods envy?


Pan. Ay, ay, 'tis too plain a case.
Cre. And is it true, that I must go from Troy?
Troi. A hateful truth.
Cre. What, and from Troilus too?
Troi. From Troy, and Troilus.
Cre. Is it possible?

Troi. And suddenly : while injury of chance
Pats back leave-taking, juftles roughly by
All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips
Of all rejoyndure, forcibly prevents
Our lock'd embraces, strangles our dear vows,
Ev’n in the birth of our own labouring breath.
We two, that with so many thousand sighs
Each other bought, muft poorly sell our selves
With the rude brevity and discharge of one.
Injurious Time now with a robber's hafte
Crams his rich thiev'ry up he knows not how.
As many farewels as be Itars in heav'n,
With distinct breath and consign'd kisses to them,
He fumbles up all in one loose adieu ;
And scants us with a single famish'd kiss,
Diftafted with the sale of broken tears.

Æne. (Wilbin.] My Lord, is the Lady ready?

Troi. Hark, you are callid. 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. (Exit Pandarus.

Cre. I must then to the Grecians?
Troi. No remedy.
Cre. A woeful Cresid 'mongst the merry Greeks!
When shall we see again?

Troi. Hear me, my love; be thou but true of heart
Cre, I true ? how now? what wicked deem is this?

Troi. 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,


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