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  • Title: Troilus and Cressida (Folio 1, 1623)
  • Editor: William Godshalk
  • ISBN: 1-55058-301-8

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: William Godshalk
    Peer Reviewed

    Troilus and Cressida (Folio 1, 1623)

    Troylus and Cressida.
    Par. There is no helpe:
    The bitter disposition of the time will haue it so.
    On Lord, weele follow you.
    2225AEne. Good morrow all. Exit AEneas
    Par. And tell me noble Diomed; faith tell me true,
    Euen in the soule of sound good fellow ship,
    Who in your thoughts merits faire Helen most?
    My selfe, or Menelaus?
    2230Diom. Both alike.
    He merits well to haue her, that doth seeke her,
    Not making any scruple of her soylure,
    With such a hell of paine, and world of charge.
    And you as well to keepe her, that defend her,
    2235Not pallating the taste of her dishonour,
    With such a costly losse of wealth and friends:
    He like a puling Cuckold, would drinke vp
    The lees and dregs of a flat tamed peece:
    You like a letcher, out of whorish loynes,
    2240Are pleas'd to breede out your inheritors:
    Both merits poyz'd, each weighs no lesse nor more,
    But he as he, which heauier for a whore.
    Par. You are too bitter to your country-woman.
    Dio. Shee's bitter to her countrey: heare me Paris,
    2245For euery false drop in her baudy veines,
    A Grecians life hath sunke: for euery scruple
    Of her contaminated carrion weight,
    A Troian hath beene slaine. Since she could speake,
    She hath not giuen so many good words breath,
    2250As for her, Greekes and Troians suffred death.
    Par. Faire Diomed, you doe as chapmen doe,
    Dis praise the thing that you desire to buy:
    But we in silence hold this vertue well;
    Weele not commend, what we intend to sell.
    2255Here lyes our way. Exeunt.

    Enter Troylus and Cressida.

    Troy. Deere trouble not your selfe: the morne is cold.
    Cres. Then sweet my Lord, Ile call mine Vnckle down;
    He shall vnbolt the Gates.
    2260Troy. Trouble him not:
    To bed, to bed: sleepe kill those pritty eyes,
    And giue as soft attachment to thy sences,
    As Infants empty of all thought.
    Cres. Good morrow then.
    2265Troy. I prithee now to bed.
    Cres. Are you a weary of me?
    Troy. O Cressida! but that the busie day
    Wak't by the Larke, hath rouz'd the ribauld Crowes,
    And dreaming night will hide our eyes no longer:
    2270I would not from thee.
    Cres. Night hath beene too briefe.
    Troy. Beshrew the witch! with venemous wights she (stayes,
    As hidiously as hell; but flies the graspes of loue,
    With wings more momentary, swift then thought:
    2275You will catch cold, and curse me.
    Cres. Prithee tarry, you men will neuer tarry;
    O foolish Cressid, I might haue still held off,
    And then you would haue tarried. Harke, ther's one vp?
    Pand. within. What's all the doores open here?
    2280Troy. It is your Vnckle. Enter Pandarus.
    Cres. A pestilence on him: now will he be mocking:
    I shall haue such a life.
    Pan. How now, how now? how goe maiden-heads?
    Heare you Maide: wher's my cozin Cressid?
    2285Cres. Go hang your self, you naughty mocking Vnckle:
    You bring me to doo----and then you floute me too.
    Pan. To do what? to do what? let her say what:
    What haue I brought you to doe?
    Cres. Come, come, beshrew your heart: youle nere be
    2290good, nor suffer others.
    Pan. Ha, ha: alas poore wretch: a poore Chipochia, hast
    not slept to night? would he not (a naughty man) let it
    sleepe: a bug-beare take him. One knocks.
    Cres. Did not I tell you? would he were knockt ith'
    2295head. Who's that at doore? good Vnckle goe and see.
    My Lord, come you againe into my Chamber:
    You smile and mocke me, as if I meant naughtily.
    Troy. Ha, ha.
    Cre. Come you are deceiu'd, I thinke of no such thing.
    2300How earnestly they knocke: pray you come in. Knocke.
    I would not for halfe Troy haue you seene here. Exeunt
    Pan. Who's there? what's the matter? will you beate
    downe the doore? How now, what's the matter?
    AEne. Good morrow Lord, good morrow.
    2305Pan. Who's there my Lord AEneas? by my troth I
    knew you not: what newes with you so early?
    AEne. Is not Prince Troylus here?
    Pan. Here? what should he doe here?
    AEne. Come he is here, my Lord, doe not deny him:
    2310It doth import him much to speake with me.
    Pan. Is he here say you? 'tis more then I know, Ile be
    sworne: For my owne part I came in late: what should
    he doe here?
    AEne. Who, nay then: Come, come, youle doe him
    2315wrong, ere y'are ware: youle be so true to him, to be
    false to him: Doe not you know of him, but yet goe fetch
    him hither, goe.

    Enter Troylus.
    Troy. How now, what's the matter?
    2320AEne. My Lord, I scarce haue leisure to salute you,
    My matter is so rash: there is at hand,
    Paris your brother, and Deiphoebus,
    The Grecian Diomed, and our Anthenor
    Deliuer'd to vs, and for him forth-with,
    2325Ere the first sacrifice, within this houre,
    We must giue vp to Diomeds hand
    The Lady Cressida.
    Troy. Is it concluded so?
    AEne. By Priam, and the generall state of Troy,
    2330They are at hand, and ready to effect it.
    Troy. How my atchieuements mocke me;
    I will goe meete them: and my Lord AEneas,
    We met by chance; you did not finde me here.
    AEn. Good, good, my Lord, the secrets of nature
    2335Haue not more gift in taciturnitie. Exennt.

    Enter Pandarus and Cressid.
    Pan. Is't possible? no sooner got but lost: the diuell
    take Anthenor; the yong Prince will goe mad: a plague
    vpon Anthenor; I would they had brok's necke.
    2340Cres. How now? what's the matter? who was here?
    Pan. Ah, ha!
    Cres. Why sigh you so profoundly? wher's my Lord?
    gone? tell me sweet Vnckle, what's the matter?
    Pan. Would I were as deepe vnder the earth as I am
    Cres. O the gods! what's the matter?
    Pan. Prythee get thee in: would thou had'st nere been
    borne; I knew thou would'st be his death. O poore Gen-
    tleman: a plague vpon Anthenor.
    ¶¶2 Cres. Good