Internet Shakespeare Editions

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  • Title: Troilus and Cressida (Modern)
  • 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 (Modern)

    Enter Thersites in excursion.
    Now they are clapper-clawing one another, I'll go look on. That dissembling, abominable varlet, Diomed, 3335has 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, 3340luxurious drab of a sleeveless errant. O'th't'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 proved worth a blackberry. They set me up in policy that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that 3345dog 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 began to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion.
    Enter Diomed [with Cressida's sleeve in his helmet] and Troilus.
    3350Soft, here comes sleeve and th'other.
    [He stands aside.]
    Fly not, for shouldst thou take the river Styx,
    I would swim after.
    Thou dost miscall retire.
    I do not fly, but advantageous care
    3355Withdrew me from the odds of multitude.
    Have at thee.
    [They fight.]
    Hold thy whore, Grecian. Now for thy whore, Trojan. Now the sleeve, now the sleeve.
    [Exeunt Diomed and Troilus, fighting.]
    Enter Hector.
    What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector's match?
    Art thou of blood and honor?
    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.