PROLOGUE. From isles of Greece In Troy, there lies the scene. With wanton Paris sleeps; and that's the quarrel. And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge 2 Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, Of author's pen or actor's voice; but suited To tell you, fair beholders, that our play Leaps o'er the vaunt1 and firstlings of those broils, Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are; 1. e. the avant, what went before. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. ACT I. SCENE I. Troy. Before Priam's palace. Enter TROILUS armed, and pandarus. Troi. Call 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 2 ne'er be mended? Troi. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant; But I am weaker than a woman's tear, Tamer than sleep, fonder3 than ignorance; And skill-less as unpractised infancy. Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: for 1 Servant. 2 Habit. More foolish. He, my part, I'll not meddle nor make no farther. that will have a cake out of the wheat, must tarry the grinding. Troi. Have I not tarried? Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting. Troi. Have I not tarried? Pan. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening. Troi. Still have I tarried. Pan. Ay, to the leavening; 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 herself, what goddess e'er she be, Doth lesser blench1 at sufferance than I do. At Priam's royal table do I sit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts, thence? -When is she Pan. Well, she looked yesternight 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 sigh, would rive 2 in twain ; Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, I have (as when the sun doth light a storm) Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile: But sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming gladness, Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness. Pan. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's, (well, go to) there were no more comparison between the women;-but, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her; but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit; but― Troi. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,When 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 Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice; me, As true thou tell'st me, when I say—I love her; Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it. Pan. I speak no more than truth. Troi. Thou dost not speak so much. Pan. Faith, I'll not meddle in 't. Let her be as |