Troylus. All here my Varlet, Ile vnarme againe. Why should I warre without the wals of Troy That finde such cruell battell here within? Each Troian that is matter of his heart, Let him to field, Troylus alas hath none.
Pan. Will this geere nere be mended?
Troy. The Greeks are strong, & skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fiercenesse Valiant: But I am weaker then a womans teare; Tamer then sleepe, fonder then ignorance; Lesse valiant then the Virgin in the night, And skillesse as vnpractis'd Infancie.
Pan. Well, I haue told you enough of this: For my part, Ile not meddle nor make no farther. Hee that will haue a Cake out of the Wheate, must needes tarry the grinding.
Troy. Haue I not tarried?
Pan. I the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
Troy. Haue I not tarried?
Pan. I the boulting; but you must tarry the leau'ing.
Troy. Still haue I tarried.
Pan. I, to the leauening: but heeres yet in the word hereafter, the Kneading, the making of the Cake, the heating of the Ouen, and the Baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burne your lips.
Troy. Patience her selfe, what Goddesse ere she be, Doth lesser blench at sufferance, then I doe: At Priams Royall Table doe I sit; And when faire Cressid comes into my thoughts, So (Traitor) then she comes, when she is thence.
Pan. Well: She look'd yesternight fairer, then euer I saw her looke, Or any woman else.
Troy. I was about to tell thee, when my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would riue in twaine, Least Hector, or my Father should perceiue me: I haue (as when the Sunne doth light a-scorne) Buried this sigh, in wrinkle of a smile: But sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming gladnesse, Is like that mirth, Fate turnes to sudden sadnesse.
Pan. And her haire were not somewhat darker then Helens, well go too, there were no more comparison betweene the Women. But for my part she is my Kinswoman, I would not (as they tearme it) praise it, but I wold some-body had heard her talke yesterday as I did: I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit, but———
Troy. Oh Pandarus! I tell thee Pandarus; When I doe tell thee, there my hopes lye drown'd: Reply not inhow many Fadomes deepe They lye indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad In Cressids loue. Thou answer'st she is Faire, Powr'st in the open Vlcer of my heart, Her Eyes, her Haire, her Cheeke, her Gate her Voice, Handlest in thy discourse. O that her Hand (In whose comparison, all whites are Inke) Writing their owne reproach; to whose soft seizure, The Cignits Downe is harsh, and spirit of Sense Hard as the palme of Plough-man. This thou tel'st me; As true thou tel'st me, when I say I loue her But saying thus, instead of Oyle and Balme, Thou lai'st in euery gash that loue hath giuen me, The Knife that made it.
Pan. I speake no more then truth.
Troy. Thou do'st not speake so much.
Pan. Faith, Ile not meddle in't: Let her be as shee is, if she be faire, 'tis the better for her: and she be not, she ha's the mends in her owne hands.
Troy. Good Pandarus: How now Pandarus?
Pan. I haue had my Labour for my trauell, ill thought on of her, and ill thought on of you: Gone betweene and betweene, but small thankes for my labour.
Troy. What art thou angry Pandarus? what with me?
Pan. Because she's Kinne to me, therefore shee's not so faire as Helen, and she were not kin to me, she would be as faire on Friday, as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not and she were a Black-a-Moore, 'tis all one to me.
Troy. Say I she is not faire?
Troy. I doe not care whether you doe or no. Shee's a Foole to stay behinde her Father: Let her to the Greeks, and so Ile tell her the next time I see her: for my part, Ile meddle nor make no more i'th'matter.
Troy. Pandarus?
Pan. Not I.
Troy. Sweete Pandarus.
Pan. Pray you speake no more to me, I will leaue all Exit Pand.as I found it, and there an end.
Sound Alarum.
Tro. Peace you vngracious Clamors, peace rude sounds, Fooles on both sides, Helen must needs be faire, When with your bloud you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight vpon this Argument: It is too staru'd a subiect for my Sword, But Pandarus: O Gods! How do you plague me? I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar, And he's as teachy to be woo'd to woe, As she is stubborne, chast, against all suite. Tell me Apollo for thy Daphnes Loue What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we: Her bed is India, there she lies, a Pearle, Between our Ilium, and where shee recides Let it be cald the wild and wandring flood, Our selfe the Merchant, and this sayling Pandar, Our doubtfull hope, our conuoy and our Barke.
Alarum.Enter Æneas. Æne. How now Prince Troylus? Wherefore not a field?
Troy. Because not there; this womans answer sorts. For womanish it is to from thence: What newes Æneas from the field to day?
Æne. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
Troy. By whom Æneas?
Æne. Troylus by Menelaus.
Troy. Let Paris bleed 'tis but a scar to scorne, Alarum.Paris is gor'd with Menelaus horne.
Æne. Harke what good sport is out of Towne to day.
Troy. Better at home, if would I might were may: But to the sport abroad, are you bound thither?
All here my Varlet, Ile vnarme againe.
All here my Varlet, Ile vnarme againe.