Act 1 — Scene I. Troy. Before Priam's palace.

Tro. 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,[937] Let him to field; Troilus, alas, hath none! 5 Pan. Will this gear ne'er be mended? Tro. 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, fonder than ignorance,[938] 10 Less valiant than the virgin in the night, And skilless as unpractised infancy. Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part, I 'll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a[939] cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding.[940] 15 Tro. Have I not tarried? Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.[941] Tro. Have I not tarried? Pan. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening. Tro. Still have I tarried. 20 Pan. Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word[942] 'hereafter,' the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the[943] cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips.[944] Tro. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be, 25 Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do.[945] At Priam's royal table do I sit;[946] And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,—[947][948] So, traitor!—'When she comes!'—When is she thence?[948] Pan. Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I[949] 30 saw her look, or any woman else.[949] Tro. I was about to tell thee:—when my heart,[950] As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, I have, as when the sun doth light a storm,[951] 35 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[952] Helen's—well, go to—there were no more comparison between 40 the women: but, for my part, she is my kinswoman;[953] I would not, as they term it, praise her: but I would somebody[954] had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit, but— Tro. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,— 45 When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd, Reply not in how many fathoms deep[955] They lie indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad[956][957] In Cressid's love: thou answer'st 'she is fair;'[957] Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart[958][959] 50 Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,[959] Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand,[959][960][961] In whose comparison all whites are ink[961] Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure[961] The cygnet's down is harsh and spirit of sense[961][962] 55 Hard as the palm of ploughman: this thou tell'st me,[961] As true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her;[963] But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it. 60 Pan. I speak no more than truth. Tro. Thou dost not speak so much. Pan. Faith, I'll not meddle in't. Let her be as she is:[964] if she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has[965] the mends in her own hands. 65 Tro. Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus![966] Pan. I have had my labour for my travail; ill-thought on of her, and ill-thought on of you: gone between and between,[967] but small thanks for my labour. Tro. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me? 70 Pan. Because she's kin to me, therefore she's not so[968] fair as Helen: an she were not kin to me, she would be as[965][969] fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I?[970] I care not an she were a black-a-moor; 'tis all one to me.[965] Tro. Say I she is not fair? 75 Pan. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay behind her father; let her to the Greeks; and so I'll tell her the next time I see her: for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more i' the matter.[971] Tro. Pandarus,— 80 Pan. Not I. Tro. Sweet Pandarus,— Pan. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and there an end. [Exit. An alarum.[972] Tro. Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds! 85 Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight upon this argument; It is too starved a subject for my sword. But Pandarus—O gods, how do you plague me! 90 I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar;[973] And he's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo[974] As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.[975] Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love, What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? 95 Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl: Between our Ilium and where she resides,[976] Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood,[977] Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark. 100

Æne. How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not afield?[978] Tro. Because not there: this woman's answer sorts, For womanish it is to be from thence. What news, Æneas, from the field to-day? Æne. That Paris is returned home, and hurt. 105 Tro. By whom, Æneas? Æne. Troilus, by Menelaus. Tro. Let Paris bleed: 'tis but a scar to scorn; Paris is gored with Menelaus' horn. [Alarum. Æne. Hark, what good sport is out of town to-day! Tro. Better at home, if 'would I might' were 'may.' 110 But to the sport abroad: are you bound thither? Æne. In all swift haste. Tro. Come, go we then together. [Exeunt.