Imatges de pÓgina
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IN Troy, there lies the fcene: from Ifles of Greece
The Princes orgillous, their high blood chaf'd,
Have to the Port of Athens fent their ships,
Fraught with the minifters and inftruments
Of cruel war.

Sixty and nine, that wore
Their Crownets regal, from th' Athenian bay
Put forth toward Phrygia, and their vow is made
To ranfack Troy; within whofe ftrong Immures,
The ravish'd Helen, Menelaus' Queen,

With wanton Paris fleeps; and That's the Quarrel.
To Tenedos they come-

And the deep-drawing Barks do there difgorge
Their warlike fraughtage. Now on Dardan plains,
The fresh, and yet unbruifed, Greeks do pitch
Their brave Pavillions. Priam's fix Gates i' th' City,
(Dardan, and Thymbria, Ilia, Scæa, Troian
And Antenorides,) with maffy staples

And correfponfive and fulfilling bolts,

*

Sperre up the fons of Troy.

Now expectation tickling skittish Spirits

On one and other fide, Trojan and Greek,
Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come
A Prologue arm'd, (but not in confidence
Of Author's pen, or Actor's voice,;. but fuated
In like conditions as our Argument ;)
To tell you, (fair Beholders) that our play
Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of these broils,
'Ginning i' th' middle: Starting thence away,
To what may be digefted in.a Play..

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

*Stir up the Sons of Troy.]-We fhould [ read sperre, &c, to sperre, or Spar, from the old Teutonic Word (Sperren) fignifies to shut up, defend by Bars.

Theobald.

Dramatis

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Helen, Wife to Menelaus, in love with Paris.

Andromache, ife to Hector.

Caffandra, Daughter to Priam, a Prophetess.

Creffida, Daughter:to Galchas; in love with Troilus.

Alexander, Creffida's Man.

Boy, Page toTroilus.

Trojan and Greek Soldiers, with other Attendants.

SCENE, Troy; and the Grecian Camp, before it.

TRO ILUS

AND

CRESSID A.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

C

The Palace in TROY.

Enter Pandarus and Troilus.

TROILU S.

ALL 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 geer ne'er be mended?

Troi. The Greeks are ftrong, and skilful to their ftrength,

Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant.
But I am weaker than a woman's tear,

Tamer than fleep, fonder than ignorance:
Lefs valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skill-lefs as unpractis'd infancy.

Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part, I'll not meddle nor make any farther. He, that will have a cake out of the wheat, muft needs tarry the grinding.

Troi. Have I not tarried?

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

Troi. Have I not tarried?

A 5

Pan.

Pan. Ay, the boulting; but you must tarry.the leav'ning.

Troi. Still have I tarried.

Pan. Ay, to the leav'ning: 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 herfelf, what Goddess e'er fhe be, Doth leffer blench at fufferance, than I do. At Priam's royal table do 1 fit;

And when fair Creffid comes into my thoughts,

So. traitor!when he comes? when is fhe thence ? Pan. Well, fhe look'd yefternight 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 figh, would rive in twain,
Left Hector or my father should perceive me;
I have (as when the fun doth light a ftorm)
Buried this figh in wrinkle of a smile :

But forrow, that is couch'd in feeming gladness,
Is like that mirth Fate turns to fudden sadness.

Pan. An her hair were not fomewhat darker than Helen's-well, go to, there were no more comparison between the women. But, for my part, fhe is my kinfwoman; I would not (as they term it) praife her-but I would, fomebody had heard her talk yefterday, as I did: I will not dispraise your fifter Caffandra's wit, but,

Troi. O Pandarus! I tell thee, PandarusWhen 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 Creffid's love. Thou answer'st, she is fair;
Pour'ft in the open ulcer of my heart

Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice;
Handleft in thy discourse-O that! her hand!
(In whose comparison, all whites are ink

Writing

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