Troilus and Cressida

Troylus. Call here my Varlet, Ile vnarme againe. Why should I warre without the walls of Troy That finde ſuch cruell battell here within? Each Troian that is maſter of his heart, Let him to field, Troylus, alas hath none.

Pan. Will this geere nere be mended?

Troy. The Greeks are strong, & and 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 skillneſſe 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 bolting; 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 herſelfe, 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 eſſe.

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 talk 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 in how 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 Cignets 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 ſpeak 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 fair 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?

Pan. 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 ſpeak no more to me, I will leaue all as I found it, and there an end.

Exit Pand.