TROILUS & CRESSIDA - William Shakespeare

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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

       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, Ilias, 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, Troyan 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, ‘tis but the chance of war.

       Table of Contents

      SCENE 1. 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 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.

       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 suff’rance 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 she is thence?

       PANDARUS. Well, she look’d 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.

       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

       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. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, ‘tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in her own hands.

       TROILUS.

       Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus!

       PANDARUS. I have had my labour for my travail, ill thought on of her and ill thought on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour.

       TROILUS.

       What! art thou angry, Pandarus? What! with me?

       PANDARUS. Because she’s kin to me, therefore she’s not so fair as Helen. An she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a blackamoor; ‘tis all one to me.

       TROILUS.

       Say I she is not fair?

      

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