Witness the process of your speech, wherein* You told how Diomed, in a whole week by days, Did haunt you in the field.

ENE. Health to you, valiant sir, During all question of the gentle truce: But when I meet you arm'd, as black defiance, As heart can think or courage execute.

DIO. The one and other Diomed embraces. Our bloods are now in calm; and, so long, health: But when contention and occasion meet, By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life, With all my force," pursuit, and policy. ENE. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly

With his face backward.-In humane gentleness,
Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises' life,
Welcome, indeed! By Venus' hand I swear,
No man alive can love, in such a sort,
The thing he means to kill, more excellently!
Dio. We sympathize:-Jove, let Æneas live,
If to my sword his fate be not the glory,
A thousand complete courses of the sun!
But, in mine emulous honour, let him die,
With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow!
ENE. We know each other well.

Dio. We do; and long to know each other

worse.

[ing, PAR. This is the most despiteful* gentle greetThe noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of.What business, lord, so early?

ENE. I was sent for to the king; but why, I
know not.
[this Greek

PAR. His purpose meets you: 'twas to bring
To Calchas' house; and there to render him,
For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid:
Let's have your company; or, if you please,
Haste there before us: I constantly do think,
(Or, rather, call my thought a certain knowledge)
My brother Troilus lodges there to-night;
Rouse him, and give him note of our approach,
With the whole quality wherefore: † I fear,
We shall be much unwelcome.

ENE. That I assure you; Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece, Than Cressid borne from Troy. PAR.

There is no help;

[Exit.

The bitter disposition of the time
Will have it so. On, lord; we'll follow you.
ENE. Good morrow, all.

PAR. And tell me, noble Diomed—'faith, tell me true,

Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship,Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen most, Myself or Menelaus?

DIO.

Both alike:

He merits well to have her, that doth seek her
(Not making any scruple of her soilure)
With such a hell of pain and world of charge;
And you as well to keep her, that defend her
(Not palating the taste of her dishonour)
With such a costly loss of wealth and friends:
He, like a puling cuckold, would drink up
The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece;
You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins
Are pleas'd to breed out your inheritors:
Both merits pois'd, each weighs nor less nor more;
But he as he, the heavier for a whore.

PAR. You are too bitter to your countrywoman.
Dio. She's bitter to her country. Hear me,
Paris,-

For every false drop in her bawdy veins
A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple
Of her contaminated carrion weight,

A Trojan hath been slain since she could speak,
She hath not given so many good words breath,
As for her Greeks and Trojans suffer'd death.
PAR. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,
Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy:
But we in silence hold this virtue well,—
We'll not commend what we intend to sell."
Here lies our way.

SCENE II.-The same.

[Exeunt.

Court before the

House of Pandarus.

CRES. Then, sweet my lord, I'll call mine uncle He shall unbolt the gates.

TROIL.
Trouble him not;
To bed, to bed sleep kill those pretty eyes,
And give as soft attachment to thy senses,
As infants' empty of all thought!
CRES.

Good morrow then. TROIL. I pr'ythee now, to bed.

CRES.
Are you a-weary of me?
TROIL. O, Cressida ! but that the busy day,
Wak'd by the lark, hath rous'd the ribald crows,
And dreaming night will hide our joys* no longer,
I would not from thee.

CRES.
Night hath been too brief.
TROIL. Beshrew the witch! with venomous
wights she stays,

As tediously as hell; but flies the grasps of love,
With wings more momentary-swift than thought.
You will catch cold, and curse me.

(*) First folio, eyes. and Mr. Collier's annotator,

(+) First folio, hidiously.

"We'll but commend what we intend to sell." The former, in all probability, is what the poet wrote.

You bring me to do, and then you flout me too. PAN. To do what? to do what?-let her say what-what have I brought you to do?

CRES. Come, come; beshrew your heart! you'll ne'er be good,

Nor suffer others.

PAN. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! ah poor capocchio-hast not slept to-night? would he him!(1) not, a naughty man, let it sleep? a bugbear take [Knocking.

ah poor capocchio!-] The old text has, "a poor chipochia." "Capocchio" is an Italian word, signifying simpleton, innocent, and the like.

CRES. Did not I tell you?-would he were knock'd i' the head!

:

Who's that at door? good uncle, go and see.-
My lord, come you again into my chamber:-
You smile, and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.
TROIL. Ha, ha!

CRES. Come, you are deceiv'd, I think of no
such thing.-
[Knocking.

How earnestly they knock !-Pray you, come in;
I would not for half Troy have you seen here.
[Exeunt TROILUS and CRESSIDA.

PAN. [Going to the door.] Who's there? what's the matter? will you beat down the door? How now? what's the matter?

Enter ENEAS.

ENE. Good morrow, lord, good morrow. PAN. Who's there? my lord Æneas? By my troth, I knew you not! what news with you so early?

ENE. Is not prince Troilus here? PAN. Here! what should he do here? [him; ENE. Come, he is here, my lord, do not deny It doth import him much to speak with me.

PAN. Is he here, say you? 'tis more than I know, I'll be sworn :-for my own part, I came in late. What should he do here?

ENE. Who-nay, then :-come, come, you'll do him wrong ere you're 'ware: you'll be so true to him, to be false to him: do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go.

a

Good, good, my lord; the secrets of nature
Have not more gift in taciturnity.]

Mr. Collier's annotator, to correct the faulty measure, reads,― "the secret laws of nature," &c.

The error, we believe, however, is in the word "secrets," which appears to have been a misprint for "secretairs," or secretaries, meaning confidants. Thus, in Heywood's "The Four Prentises of London," 1632,-" Prince Tancred is our royall secretary." Again, in Greene's Farewell of a Friend,"-" If thy wife be wise make

ENE. Good, good, my lord; the secrets" or

nature

Have not more gift in taciturnity.

[Exeunt TROILUS and ÆNEAS. PAN. Is't possible? no sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor! the young prince will go mad. A plague upon Antenor! I would, they had broke's neck!

Enter CRESSIDA.

CRES. How now? what's the matter? who
was here?
PAN. Ah, ah!

CRES. Why sigh you so profoundly? where's
my lord gone?

Tell me, sweet uncle, what's the matter?
PAN. Would I were as deep under the earth as
I am above!

CRES. O, the gods !—what's the matter?

PAN. Pr'ythee, get thee in; would thou hadst ne'er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death-O, poor gentleman!-A plague upon Antenor!

CRES. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you, what's the matter?

PAN. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art changed for Antenor: thou must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus; 'twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he cannot bear it.

CRES. O, you immortal gods!—I will not go. PAN. Thou must. [father; CRES. I will not, uncle: I have forgot my I know no touch of consanguinity;

No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me
As the sweet Troilus.-O, you gods divine!
Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood,
If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,
Do to this body what extremes you can;
But the strong base and building of my love
Is as the very centre of the earth,
Drawing all things to it.-I will go in and weep;
PAN. Do, do.

CRES. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my

praised cheeks;

Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart

With sounding Troilus! I will not go from Troy! [Exeunt.

(*) First folio, extremitie.

her thy secretary." Again, in Drayton's "Poly-olbion" (Notes to Song IX.)." But in that true secretary of divinity and nature, Solomon," &c. So also in Ben Jonson's "Magnetic Lady," Act IV. Sc. 2,

"If you have but a secretary laundress," &c. And in the play of "The Antiquary," Act III. Sc. 1,"unless you were Time's secretary," &c.