IN Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece
The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf'd,
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships,
Fraught with the ministers and instruments
Of cruel war. Sixty and nine, that wore
Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay
Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made
To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures
The ravish'd Helen, Menelaus' queen,

With wanton Paris sleeps; and that's the quarrel.
To Tenedos they come;

And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge

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Their warlike fraughtage. Now on Dardan plains
The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch
Their brave pavilions; Priam's six-gated city,
Dardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien,
And Antenorides, with massy staples
And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts,
Sperr up the sons of Troy.

Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits,
On one and other side, Trojan and Greek,
Sets all on hazard; and hither am I come
A prologue arm'd, but not in confidence.
Of author's pen or actor's voice, but suited
In like conditions as our argument,
To tell you, fair beholders, that our play
Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils,
Beginning in the middle, starting thence away
To what may be digested in a play.

Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are:
Now good or bad, 't is but the chance of war.

SCENE I. Troy. Before Priam's Palace.
Enter TROILUS, armed, and PANDARUS.

Troilus. 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,

Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none.

Pandarus. Will this gear ne'er be mended?

Troilus. 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,
Less valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skilless as unpractis'd infancy.

Pandarus. Well, I have told you enough of this; for my part, I'll not meddle nor make no further. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding.

Troilus. Have I not tarried?

Pandarus. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting. Troilus. Have I not tarried?

Pandarus. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.

Troilus. Still have I tarried.

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Pandarus. Ay, to the leavening; 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.

Troilus. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be, Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do.

At Priam's royal table do I sit;

And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,—

So, traitor!-When she comes!—When is she thence?

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Pandarus. Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I

saw her look, or any woman else.

Troilus. I was about to tell thee.-When my heart,

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,

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.

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Pandarus. An her hair were not somewhat 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 sister Cassandra's wit, but—

Troilus. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,-
When 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

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In Cressid's love: thou answer'st 'she is fair;'
Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,
Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand,
In whose comparison all whites are ink,
Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh and spirit of sense

Hard as the palm of ploughman. This thou tell'st me,
As true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her;
But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me
The knife that made it.

Pandarus. I speak no more than truth. Troilus. Thou dost not speak so much. Pandarus. Faith, I'll not meddle in 't. is: if she be fair, 't is the better for her; has the mends in her own hands.

my

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Let her be as she an she be not, she

travail; ill-thought

Troilus. Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus! Pandarus. I have had my labour for on of her and ill-thought on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour.

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Troilus. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me?