Pan. What a pair of spectacles is here! let me embrace too: Oh heart, (as the goodly saying is), Why fight thou without breaking? where he answers again; Because thou can'ft not eafe thy fmart, There was never a truer rhime, "Let us caft away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verfe; we fee it, we fee it. How now, lambs ? Troi. Creffid, I love thee in fo ftrange a purity, Pan. Ay, ay, 'tis too plain a cafe. Gre. And is it true that I must go from Troy? Gre. What, and from Troilus too? Troi. And fuddenly: while injury of chance With diftinct breath and confign'd kisses to them, And fcants us with a fingle famifh'd kiss, Ene. [within.] My Lord, is the lady ready? 1 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? Trai. No remedy. Cre. A woeful Creffid 'mongst the merry Greeks! When fhall we fee again?" Trai. Here me, my love; be thou but true of heart- For it is parting from us :- I fpeak not, be thou true, as fearing thee: Gre. O, you shall be expos'd, my Lord, to dangers As infinite as imminent but I'll be true. Trol. And I'll grow friend with danger. fleeve. Wear this Cre. And you this glove. When fhall I fee you? But yet be true. Cre. O heav'ns! be true, again? Troi. Hear, why I fpeak it, love: The Grecian youths are full of fubtle qualities, (Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous fin) Gre. O heav'ns, you love me not! Trai. Die I a villain then!. In this I do not call your faith in question So mainly as my merit: I cannot fing, To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant. There lurks a ftill and dumb-difcourfive devil, That tempts moft cunningly; but be not tempted. Gre. Do you think I will? Troi. No. But fomething may be done that we will not: Troi. Who I? alas, it is my vice, my fault. While others fish, with craft, for great opinion; I, with great truth, catch mere fimplicity. While fome with cunning gild their copper-crowns, With truth and plainnefs I do wear mine bare. Fear not my truth; the moral of my wit Is plain and true, there's all the reach of it. Welcome, Sir Diomede; here is the lady, At the port (Lord) I'll give her to thy hand, Name Creffid, and thy life fhall be as fafe So please you, fave the thanks this Prince expects: I charge thee, ufe her well, even for my charge; Dio. Oh, be not mov'd, Prince Troilus. Let me be privileg'd by my place and meffage, To be a speaker free. I'll answer to my lift When I am hence, and know, my Lord, I'll nothing do on charge: to her own worth She shall be priz'd: but that you say, Be't so; -No. Troi. Come, to the port-I'll tell thee, Diomede, This brave fhall oft make thee to hide thy head. Lady, give me your hand-and, as we walk, To our own felves bend we our needful talk. Par. Hark, Hector's trumpet! [Sound trumpet. Ene. How have we spent this morning? The Prince must think me tardy and remifs, That fwore to ride before him in the field. Par. 'Tis Troilus' fault. Come, come, to field with him. Dio. Let me make ready strait. Ene. Yea, with a bridegroom's fresh alacrity. The glory of our Troy doth this day lie: [Exeunt SCENE VII. Changes to the Grecian camp. Enter Ajax armed, Agamemnon, Achilles, Patroclus, Menelaus, Ulyffes, Neftor, &c. Aga. Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair, Anticipating time with ftarting courage. Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy, Ajax. Trumpet, there's my purse; Now crack thy lungs, and fplit thy brazen pipe: [Trumpet Sounds. Come, ftretch thy cheft, and let thy eyes fpout blood: Thou blow'st for Hector. Ubf. No trua pet answers. Achil. 'Tis but early day. Aga. Is not yond Diomede with Calchas' daughter? Úly. 'Tis he, I ken the manner of his gate; He rifes on his toe; that fpirit of his In afpiration lifts him from the earth. Enter Diomede, with Creffida. Aga. Is this the Lady Creffida? Aga Mott dearly welcome to the Greeks, fweet Lady.* fweet Lady. Neft. Our General doth falute you with a kifs. "Twere better fhe were kifs'd in general. Neft. And very courtly counsel: l'll begin. So much for Neftor. Achil. I'll take that winter from your lips, fair Lady : Men, I had good argument for kissing once. For thus pop'd Paris in his hardiment, And parted, thus, you and your argument. Ulyff. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns, For which we lofe our heads to gild his horns! Pat. The first was Menelaus' kifs-- this mine Patro lus kiffes you. Men. O, this is trim. Pat. Paris and I kifs evermore for him. Men. I'll have my kifs, Sir: Lady, by your leave Pat. Both take and give. Cre. I'll make my match to give, The kifs you take is better than you give ; Men. I'll give you boot, I'll give you three for one. Cre. No, I'll be won. Uly. It were no natch, your nail against his horn: 1 |