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IN Troy there lyes the Scene: From Iles of Greec
With wanton Paris sleepes, and that's the Quarrelt
And the deepe-drawing Barke do there disgorge
Now Expectation tickling skittish spirits,
THE TRAGEDIE OF
Troylus and Cressida.
Actus Primus. Scana Prima.
Enter Pandarus and Troy!us.
All here my Varlet, Ile unarme againe.
Why should I warre without the wals of Troy
That finde such cruell battell here within?
Each Trojan 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, & skilful to their strength,
Tamer then sleepe, fonder then ignorance;
Lesse valiant then the Virgin in the night,
And skillesse as unpractis'd Infancie.
Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: For my part, Ile not meddle nor make no farther. Hee that will have a Cake out of the Wheate, must needes tarry the grinding.
Troy. Have I not tarried?
Pan. I the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
Pan, I the boulting; but you must tarry the leav'ing.
Pan. I, to the leavening: but heeres 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 burne your lips.
Troy. Patience her selfe, 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.
She look'd yesternight fairer, then ever I saw her looke,
Troy. I was about to tell thee, when my heart,
But sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming gladnesse,
Pan. And her haire were not somewhat darker than 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 talke 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 love. Thou answer'st she is Faire,
Powr'st in the open Ulcer of my heart.
Her Eyes, her Haire, her Cheeke, her Gate, her Voice,
(In whose comparison, all whites are Inke)
Writing their owne reproach; to whose soft seizure,