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Pan. What a pair of spectacles is here! let me embrace too:

Oh heart, (as the goodly saying is),
O heart, O heavy heart,

Why fight thou without breaking?

where he answers again;

Because thou can'ft not eafe thy fmart,
By friendship, nor by speaking.

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 ?

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Troi. Creffid, I love thee in fo ftrange a purity,
That the bleis'd 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 cafe.

Gre. And is it true that I must go
Troi. A hateful truth!

from Troy?

Gre. What, and from Troilus too?
Troi. From Troy, and Troilus,
Cre. Is it poffible ?

Troi. And fuddenly: while injury of chance
Puts back leave-taking, juftles roughly by
All time of paufe, rudely beguiles our lips
Of all rejoindure, forciby prevents
Our lock'd embraces, ftrangles our dear vows,
Ev'n in the birth of our own labouring breath.
We two, that with fo many thousand fighs
Each other bought, muft poorly fell ourselves
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 stars in heaven,

With diftinct breath and confign'd kisses to them,
He fumbles up all in one loose adieu ;

And fcants us with a fingle famifh'd kiss,
Diftafted with the falt of broken tears.

Ene. [within.] My Lord, is the lady ready?
Troi. Hark! you are call'd. Some fay, the Genius fo
Cries, Come, to him that inftantly must die.
Bid them have patience; the fhall come anon.

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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-
Gre. I true! how now? what wicked deem is this?
Troi. Nay, we must use expoftulation kindly,

For it is parting from us :-

I fpeak 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, fay I, to fashion in
My fequent proteftation: be thou true,
And I will fee 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?
Troi. I will corrupt the Grecian centinels
To give thee nightly vifitation.

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,
They're loving, well compos'd, with gifts of nature
Flowing, and fwelling o'er with arts and exercife;
How novelties may move, and parts with perfon-
Alas, a kind of godly jealoufy

(Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous fin)
Makes me afraid.

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,
Nor heel the high lavolt; nor fweeten talk;
Nor play at fubtle 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 ftill and dumb-difcourfive devil,

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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:
And fometimes we are devils to ourselves,
When we will tempt the frailty of our powers,
Prefuming on their changeful potency.
Ene. [within.] Nay, good my Lord,-
Troi, Come, kifs, and let us part.
Paris. [within.] Brother Troilus,
Troi. Good brother, come you hither,
And bring Eneas and the Grecian with you.
Cre. My Lord, will you be true?

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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.

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Welcome, Sir Diomede; here is the lady,
Whom for Antenor we deliver you.

At the port (Lord) I'll give her to thy hand,
And by the way poffefs thee what the is.
Intreat her fair; and, by my foul, fair Greek,
If e'er thou stand at mercy of my sword,

Name Creffid, and thy life fhall be as fafe
As Priam is in Ilion.

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So please you, fave the thanks this Prince expects:
The luftre in your eye, heav'n in your cheek,
Pleads you fair usage; and to Diomede
You shall be mistress, and command him wholly.
Troi. Grecian, thou dost not ufe me courteously,
To fhame the zeal of my petition towards thee,
By praifing her. I tell thee, Lord of Greece,
She is as far high-foaring o'er thy praises,
As thou unworthy to be call'd her servant.

I charge thee, ufe her well, even for my charge;
For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not,
(Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard),
I'll cut thy throat.

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;
I'll speak it in my fpirit and honour-

-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.
Let us addrefs to tend on Hector's heels :

The glory of our Troy doth this day lie:
On his fair worth and fingle chivalry.

[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,
Thou dreadful Ajax, that th' appalled air
May pierce the head of the great combatant,
And hale him thither.

Ajax. Trumpet, there's my purse;

Now crack thy lungs, and fplit thy brazen pipe:
Blow, villain, till thy fphered bias cheek
Out-fwell the cholic of puff'd Aquilon;-

[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?
Dio. Ev'n fhe.

Aga Mott dearly welcome to the Greeks, fweet

Lady.*

fweet Lady.

Neft. Our General doth falute you with a kifs.
U. Yet is the kindness but particular;

"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 :
Achilles tids you welcome,

Men, I had good argument for kissing once.
Pat. But that's no argument for kissing now:

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
Cre. In kiffing do you render or receive?

Pat. Both take and give.

Cre. I'll make my match to give,

The kifs you take is better than you give ;
.Therefore no kifs.-

Men. I'll give you boot, I'll give you three for one.
Cre. You are an odd nan, give even, or give none.
Men. An odd man, Lady? every man is odd.
Che. No, Paris is not; for you know, 'tis trac
That you are odd, and he is even with you.
Men. You fillip me o' th' head.

Cre. No, I'll be won.

Uly. It were no natch, your nail against his horn:

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