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Enter Achilles and Patroclus.
I’ll heat his blood with Greekish wine tonight,
Which with my scimitar I’ll cool tomorrow.
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.
Here comes Thersites.
How now, thou core of envy!
Thou crusty batch of nature, what’s the news?
Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot worshippers, here’s a letter for thee.
From whence, fragment?
Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.
Who keeps the tent now?
The surgeon’s box or the patient’s wound.
Well said, adversity! And what needs these tricks?
Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk; thou art said to be Achilles’ male varlet.
Male varlet, you rogue! What’s that?
Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of the south, the guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs, loads o’ gravel in the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas, lime-kilns i’ th’ palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous discoveries!
Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus?
Do I curse thee?
Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no.
No! Why art thou, then, exasperate, thou idle immaterial skein of sleave silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal’s purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered with such water-flies, diminutives of nature!
My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite
From my great purpose in tomorrow’s battle.
Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba,
A token from her daughter, my fair love,
Both taxing me and gaging me to keep
An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it.
Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay;
My major vow lies here, this I’ll obey.
Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent;
This night in banqueting must all be spent.
[Exit with Patroclus.]
With too much blood and too little brain these two may run mad; but, if with too much brain and too little blood they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen. Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain as ear-wax; and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull, the primitive statue and oblique memorial of cuckolds, a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain at his brother’s leg, to what form but that he is, should wit larded with malice, and malice forced with wit, turn him to? To an ass, were nothing: he is both ass and ox. To an ox, were nothing: he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchook, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny. Ask me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites; for I care not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hey-day! sprites and fires!
Enter Hector, Troilus, Ajax, Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Menelaus and Diomedes with lights.
We go wrong, we go wrong.
No, yonder ’tis;
There, where we see the lights.
I trouble you.
No, not a whit.
Here comes himself to guide you.
Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, Princes all.
So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid good night;
Ajax commands the guard to tend on you.
Thanks, and good night to the Greeks’ general.
Good night, my lord.
Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus.
Sweet draught! ‘Sweet’ quoth a’!
Sweet sink, sweet sewer!
Good night and welcome, both at once, to those
That go or tarry.
[Exeunt Agamemnon and Menelaus.]
Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed,
Keep Hector company an hour or two.
I cannot, lord; I have important business,
The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hector.
Give me your hand.
[Aside to Troilus.] Follow his torch; he goes to
Calchas’ tent; I’ll keep you company.
Sweet sir, you honour me.
And so, good night.
[Exit Diomedes, Ulysses and Troilus following.]
Come, come, enter my tent.
[Exeunt all but Thersites.]
That same Diomed’s a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust knave; I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses. He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it: it is prodigious, there will come some change; the sun borrows of the moon when Diomed keeps his word. I will rather leave to see Hector than not to dog him. They say he keeps a Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas’ tent. I’ll after. Nothing but lechery! All incontinent varlets!
What, are you up here, ho! Speak.
[Within.] Who calls?
Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where’s your daughter?
[Within.] She comes to you.
Enter Troilus and Ulysses, at a distance; after them Thersites.
Stand where the torch may not discover us.
Cressid comes forth to him.
How now, my charge!
Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you.
Yea, so familiar?
She will sing any man at first sight.
And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff; she’s noted.
Will you remember?
Nay, but do, then;
And let your mind be coupled with your words.
What should she remember?
Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.
I’ll tell you what---
Fo, fo! come, tell a pin; you are a forsworn.
In faith, I cannot. What would you have me do?
A juggling trick, to be secretly open.
What did you swear you would bestow on me?
I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath;
Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek.
How now, Trojan!
No, no, good night; I’ll be your fool no more.
Thy better must.
Hark! a word in your ear.
O plague and madness!
You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray,
Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself
To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous;
The time right deadly; I beseech you, go.
Behold, I pray you.
Nay, good my lord, go off;
You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.
I pray thee stay.
You have not patience; come.
I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell’s torments,
I will not speak a word.
And so, good night.
Nay, but you part in anger.
Doth that grieve thee? O withered truth!
How now, my lord?
By Jove, I will be patient.
Guardian! Why, Greek!
Fo, fo! adieu! you palter.
In faith, I do not. Come hither once again.
You shake, my lord, at something; will you go?
You will break out.
She strokes his cheek.
Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word:
There is between my will and all offences
A guard of patience. Stay a little while.
How the devil Luxury, with his fat rump and potato finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!
But will you, then?
In faith, I will, la; never trust me else.
Give me some token for the surety of it.
I’ll fetch you one.
You have sworn patience.
Fear me not, my lord;
I will not be myself, nor have cognition
Of what I feel. I am all patience.
Now the pledge; now, now, now!
Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
O beauty! where is thy faith?
I will be patient; outwardly I will.
You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.
He lov’d me---O false wench!---Give’t me again.
It is no matter, now I have’t again.
I will not meet with you tomorrow night.
I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.
Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone.
I shall have it.
O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!
Thy master now lies thinking on his bed
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
I had your heart before; this follows it.
I did swear patience.
You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not;
I’ll give you something else.
I will have this. Whose was it?
It is no matter.
Come, tell me whose it was.
’Twas one’s that lov’d me better than you will.
But, now you have it, take it.
Whose was it?
By all Diana’s waiting women yond,
And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
Tomorrow will I wear it on my helm,
And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.
Wert thou the devil and wor’st it on thy horn,
It should be challeng’d.
Well, well, ’tis done, ’tis past; and yet it is not;
I will not keep my word.
Why, then farewell;
Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.
You shall not go. One cannot speak a word
But it straight starts you.
I do not like this fooling.
Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you
Pleases me best.
What, shall I come? The hour?
Ay, come; O Jove! Do come. I shall be plagu’d.
Farewell till then.
Good night. I prithee come.
Troilus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee;
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind.
What error leads must err; O, then conclude,
Minds sway’d by eyes are full of turpitude.
A proof of strength she could not publish more,
Unless she said ‘My mind is now turn’d whore.’
All’s done, my lord.
Why stay we, then?
To make a recordation to my soul
Of every syllable that here was spoke.
But if I tell how these two did co-act,
Shall I not lie in publishing a truth?
Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,
An esperance so obstinately strong,
That doth invert th’attest of eyes and ears;
As if those organs had deceptious functions
Created only to calumniate.
Was Cressid here?
I cannot conjure, Trojan.
She was not, sure.
Most sure she was.
Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.
Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now.
Let it not be believ’d for womanhood.
Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage
To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme,
For depravation, to square the general sex
By Cressid’s rule. Rather think this not Cressid.
What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers?
Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
Will he swagger himself out on’s own eyes?
This she? No; this is Diomed’s Cressida.
If beauty have a soul, this is not she;
If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies,
If sanctimony be the god’s delight,
If there be rule in unity itself,
This was not she. O madness of discourse,
That cause sets up with and against itself!
Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt
Without perdition, and loss assume all reason
Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid.
Within my soul there doth conduce a fight
Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate
Divides more wider than the sky and earth;
And yet the spacious breadth of this division
Admits no orifice for a point as subtle
As Ariachne’s broken woof to enter.
Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto’s gates:
Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven.
Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself:
The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolv’d, and loos’d;
And with another knot, five-finger-tied,
The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,
The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics
Of her o’er-eaten faith, are given to Diomed.
May worthy Troilus be half attach’d
With that which here his passion doth express?
Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well
In characters as red as Mars his heart
Inflam’d with Venus. Never did young man fancy
With so eternal and so fix’d a soul.
Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love,
So much by weight hate I her Diomed.
That sleeve is mine that he’ll bear on his helm;
Were it a casque compos’d by Vulcan’s skill
My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout
Which shipmen do the hurricano call,
Constring’d in mass by the almighty sun,
Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear
In his descent than shall my prompted sword
Falling on Diomed.
He’ll tickle it for his concupy.
O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false!
Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,
And they’ll seem glorious.
O, contain yourself;
Your passion draws ears hither.
I have been seeking you this hour, my lord.
Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy;
Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.
Have with you, Prince. My courteous lord, adieu.
Fairwell, revolted fair! and, Diomed,
Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head.
I’ll bring you to the gates.
Accept distracted thanks.
[Exeunt Troilus, Aeneas and Ulysses.]
THERSITES. Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me anything for the intelligence of this whore; the parrot will not do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery, lechery! Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion. A burning devil take them!
Enter Hector and Andromache.
When was my lord so much ungently temper’d
To stop his ears against admonishment?
Unarm, unarm, and do not fight today.
You train me to offend you; get you in.
By all the everlasting gods, I’ll go.
My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.
No more, I say.
Where is my brother Hector?
Here, sister, arm’d, and bloody in intent.
Consort with me in loud and dear petition,
Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamt
Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night
Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.
O, ’tis true!
Ho! bid my trumpet sound.
No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother!
Be gone, I say. The gods have heard me swear.
The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows;
They are polluted off’rings, more abhorr’d
Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
O, be persuaded! Do not count it holy
To hurt by being just. It is as lawful,
For we would give much, to use violent thefts
And rob in the behalf of charity.
It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;
But vows to every purpose must not hold.
Unarm, sweet Hector.
Hold you still, I say.
Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate.
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man
Holds honour far more precious dear than life.
How now, young man! Mean’st thou to fight today?
Cassandra, call my father to persuade.
No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth;
I am today i’ th’vein of chivalry.
Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong,
And tempt not yet the brushes of the war.
Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy,
I’ll stand today for thee and me and Troy.
Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you,
Which better fits a lion than a man.
What vice is that? Good Troilus, chide me for it.
When many times the captive Grecian falls,
Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,
You bid them rise and live.
O, ’tis fair play!
Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector.
How now? how now?
For th’ love of all the gods,
Let’s leave the hermit Pity with our mother;
And when we have our armours buckled on,
The venom’d vengeance ride upon our swords,
Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth!
Fie, savage, fie!
Hector, then ’tis wars.
Troilus, I would not have you fight today.
Who should withhold me?
Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars
Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire;
Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,
Their eyes o’er-galled with recourse of tears;
Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,
Oppos’d to hinder me, should stop my way,
But by my ruin.
Re-enter Cassandra with Priam.
Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast;
He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay,
Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,
Fall all together.
Come, Hector, come, go back.
Thy wife hath dreamt; thy mother hath had visions;
Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself
Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt
To tell thee that this day is ominous.
Therefore, come back.
Aeneas is a-field;
And I do stand engag’d to many Greeks,
Even in the faith of valour, to appear
This morning to them.
Ay, but thou shalt not go.
I must not break my faith.
You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir,
Let me not shame respect; but give me leave
To take that course by your consent and voice
Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam.
O Priam, yield not to him!
Do not, dear father.
Andromache, I am offended with you.
Upon the love you bear me, get you in.
This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl
Makes all these bodements.
O, farewell, dear Hector!
Look how thou diest. Look how thy eye turns pale.
Look how thy wounds do bleed at many vents.
Hark how Troy roars; how Hecuba cries out;
How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth;
Behold distraction, frenzy, and amazement,
Like witless antics, one another meet,
And all cry, ‘Hector! Hector’s dead! O Hector!’
Farewell! yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave.
Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.
You are amaz’d, my liege, at her exclaim.
Go in, and cheer the town; we’ll forth, and fight,
Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night.
Farewell. The gods with safety stand about thee!
[Exeunt severally Priam and Hector. Alarums.]
They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe,
I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve.
Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear?
Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl.
Let me read.
A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick, so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl, and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you one o’ these days; and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that unless a man were curs’d I cannot tell what to think on’t. What says she there?
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart;
Th’effect doth operate another way.
[Tearing the letter.]
Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together.
My love with words and errors still she feeds,
But edifies another with her deeds.
Alarums. Excursions. Enter Thersites.
Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I’ll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting foolish young knave’s sleeve of Troy there in his helm. I would fain see them meet, that that same young Trojan ass that loves the whore there might send that Greekish whoremasterly villain with the sleeve back to the dissembling luxurious drab of a sleeve-less errand. O’ the other side, the policy of those crafty swearing rascals that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses, is not prov’d worth a blackberry. They set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles; and now is the cur, Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm today; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion.
Enter Diomedes, Troilus following.
Soft! here comes sleeve, and t’other.
Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx, I would swim after.
Thou dost miscall retire.
I do not fly; but advantageous care
Withdrew me from the odds of multitude.
Have at thee!
Hold thy whore, Grecian; now for thy whore,
Trojan! now the sleeve, now the sleeve!
[Exeunt Troilus and Diomedes fighting.]
What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector’s match?
Art thou of blood and honour?
No, no I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very filthy rogue.
I do believe thee. Live.
God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy neck for frighting me! What’s become of the wenching rogues? I think they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at that miracle. Yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I’ll seek them.
Enter Diomedes and a Servant.
Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus’ horse;
Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid.
Fellow, commend my service to her beauty;
Tell her I have chastis’d the amorous Trojan,
And am her knight by proof.
I go, my lord.
Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas
Hath beat down Menon; bastard Margarelon
Hath Doreus prisoner,
And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,
Upon the pashed corses of the kings
Epistrophus and Cedius. Polixenes is slain;
Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt;
Patroclus ta’en, or slain; and Palamedes
Sore hurt and bruis’d. The dreadful Sagittary
Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed,
To reinforcement, or we perish all.
Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles,
And bid the snail-pac’d Ajax arm for shame.
There is a thousand Hectors in the field;
Now here he fights on Galathe his horse,
And there lacks work; anon he’s there afoot,
And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls
Before the belching whale; then is he yonder,
And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge,
Fall down before him like the mower’s swath.
Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes;
Dexterity so obeying appetite
That what he will he does, and does so much
That proof is call’d impossibility.
O, courage, courage, courage, Princes! Great Achilles
Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance.
Patroclus’ wounds have rous’d his drowsy blood,
Together with his mangled Myrmidons,
That noseless, handless, hack’d and chipp’d, come to him,
Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend
And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d and at it,
Roaring for Troilus; who hath done today
Mad and fantastic execution,
Engaging and redeeming of himself
With such a careless force and forceless care
As if that lust, in very spite of cunning,
Bade him win all.
Troilus! thou coward Troilus!
Ay, there, there.
So, so, we draw together.
Where is this Hector?
Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face;
Know what it is to meet Achilles angry.
Hector! where’s Hector? I will none but Hector.
Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head.
Troilus, I say! Where’s Troilus?
What wouldst thou?
I would correct him.
Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office
Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus!
O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor,
And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse.
Ha! art thou there?
I’ll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed.
He is my prize. I will not look upon.
Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you both!
Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother!
Now do I see thee. Ha! have at thee, Hector!
Pause, if thou wilt.
I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan.
Be happy that my arms are out of use;
My rest and negligence befriend thee now,
But thou anon shalt hear of me again;
Till when, go seek thy fortune.
Fare thee well.
I would have been much more a fresher man,
Had I expected thee.
How now, my brother!
Ajax hath ta’en Aeneas. Shall it be?
No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,
He shall not carry him; I’ll be ta’en too,
Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say:
I reck not though thou end my life today.
Enter one in armour.
Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark.
No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well;
I’ll frush it and unlock the rivets all
But I’ll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide?
Why then, fly on; I’ll hunt thee for thy hide.
Enter Achilles with Myrmidons.
Come here about me, you my Myrmidons;
Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel;
Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath;
And when I have the bloody Hector found,
Empale him with your weapons round about;
In fellest manner execute your arms.
Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye.
It is decreed Hector the great must die.
Enter Menelaus and Paris, fighting; then Thersites.
The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull! Now, dog! ’Loo, Paris, ’loo! now my double-hen’d Spartan! ’loo, Paris, ’loo! The bull has the game. ’Ware horns, ho!
[Exeunt Paris and Menelaus.]
Turn, slave, and fight.
What art thou?
A bastard son of Priam’s.
I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in everything illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel’s most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgement. Farewell, bastard.
The devil take thee, coward!
Most putrified core so fair without,
Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.
Now is my day’s work done; I’ll take my breath:
Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death!
Enter Achilles and Myrmidons.
Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set,
How ugly night comes breathing at his heels;
Even with the vail and dark’ning of the sun,
To close the day up, Hector’s life is done.
I am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek.
Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.
So, Ilion, fall thou next! Now, Troy, sink down;
Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.
On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain
‘Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’
[A retreat sounded.]
Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.
The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord.
The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the earth
And, stickler-like, the armies separates.
My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed,
Pleas’d with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.
[Sheathes his sword.]
Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail;
Along the field I will the Trojan trail.
Sound retreat. Shout. Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, Diomedes and the rest, marching.
Hark! hark! what shout is this?
[Within.] Achilles! Achilles! Hector’s slain. Achilles!
The bruit is, Hector’s slain, and by Achilles.
If it be so, yet bragless let it be;
Great Hector was as good a man as he.
March patiently along. Let one be sent
To pray Achilles see us at our tent.
If in his death the gods have us befriended;
Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.
Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor and Deiphobus.
Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.
Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Hector is slain.
Hector! The gods forbid!
He’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail,
In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field.
Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed.
Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy.
I say at once let your brief plagues be mercy,
And linger not our sure destructions on.
My lord, you do discomfort all the host.
You understand me not that tell me so.
I do not speak of flight, of fear of death,
But dare all imminence that gods and men
Address their dangers in. Hector is gone.
Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?
Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d
Go in to Troy, and say there ‘Hector’s dead.’
There is a word will Priam turn to stone;
Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,
Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word,
Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away;
Hector is dead; there is no more to say.
Stay yet. You vile abominable tents,
Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,
Let Titan rise as early as he dare,
I’ll through and through you. And, thou great-siz’d coward,
No space of earth shall sunder our two hates;
I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts.
Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go;
Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
But hear you, hear you!
Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame
Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!
[Exeunt all but Pandarus.]
A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! Thus is the poor agent despis’d! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so lov’d, and the performance so loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see---
Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing
Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;
And being once subdu’d in armed trail,
Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.
Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths.
As many as be here of Pandar’s hall,
Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall;
Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,
Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.
Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,
Some two months hence my will shall here be made.
It should be now, but that my fear is this,
Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.
Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases,
And at that time bequeath you my diseases.