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Of cruel war.
P R O L O G U E. IN 'N Troy, there lies the scene : from Isles of Greece
The Princes orgillous, their high blood chaf'd,
Sixty and nine, that wore
Sperre up the sons of Troy.-
* Stir up the Sons of Troy.) - We should [ read sperre, &c. to sperre, or spar, from the old Teutonic Word (Sperren) signifies to shut up, defend by Bars.
Helen, Wife zo Menelaus; in lovė with Paris.
Trojan and Greek Soldiers, with other Attendants.
SCENE, Troy; and the Grecian Camp, before it.
Ꭲ Ꭱ 0 I L U S S.
Α Ν D
C R E S S I D A.
A cТІ. S C Ε Ν Ε Ι.
The Palace in TROY.
Enter Pandarus and Troilus.
Why should I war without the walls of Troy,
Pan. Will this geer ne'er be ntended ?
Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this : for my part, I'll not meddle nor make any farther. He, that will have a cake out of the wheat, muft needs tarry the grinding.
Troi. Have I not tarried ?
Pan. Ay, the grinding ; but you must tarry the boulting Troi. Have I not tarried ?
Pan. Ay, the boulting ; but you must tarry.the leav'ning.
Troi. Still have I tarried.
Pan. Ay, to the leav'ning: 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 blench at sufferance, than I do. At Priam's royal table do 1 lit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts, So, traitor!-when she comes ? when is she thence ?
Pan. Well, fhe look'd yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else.
Troi. I was about to tell thee, when my heart,
Pan. An her hair were not somewbat 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 lifter Cassandra's wit, but,
Troi. O Pandarus ! I tell thee, PandarusWhen 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 In Cresid's love. Thou answer'st, she is fair ; Pour'it in the open ulcer of my heart Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice ; Handleft in thy discourse-O that! her hand! (In whose comparison, all whites are ink