Ile heat his blood with Greekish wine to night,

Which with my Cemitar Ile coole to morrow:

Patroclus, / let vs Feast him to the hight.

Heere comes Thersites.

How now, thou core of Enuy?

Thou crusty batch of Nature, what's the newes?

Why thou picture of what thou seem'st,

& Idoll of Ideot-worshippers, here's a Letter for thee.

From whence, Fragment?

Why thou full dish of Foole, from Troy.

Who keepes the Tent now?

The Surgeons box, or the Patients wound.

Well said aduersity, and what need these

tricks?

Prythee be silent boy, I profit not by thy

talke, thou art thought to be Achilles male Varlot.

Male Varlot you Rogue? What's that?

Why his masculine Whore. Now the rotten

diseases of the South, guts-griping Ruptures, Catarres,

Loades a grauell i'th'backe, Lethargies, cold Palsies, and

the like, take and take againe, such prepostrous

discoueries. Q addition 'rawe eies, durtrottē liuers, whissing lungs, bladders full of impostume. Sciaticaes lime-kills ith' palme, incurable bone-ach, and the riueled fee simple of the tetter take'

Why thou damnable box of enuy thou,

what mean'st thou to curse thus?

Do I curse thee?

Why no, you ruinous But, you whorson

indistinguishable Curre.

No? why art thou then exasperate, thou idle,

immateriall skiene of Sleyd silke; thou greene Sarcenet

flap for a sore eye, thou tassell of a Prodigals purse

thou: Ah how the poore world is pestred with such

water-flies, diminutiues of Nature.

Out gall.

Finch Egge.

My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite

From my great purpose in to morrowes battell:

Heere is a Letter from Queene Hecuba,

A token from her daughter, my faire Loue,

Both taxing me, and gaging me to keepe

An Oath that I haue sworne. I will not breake it,

Fall Greekes, faile Fame, Honor or go, or stay,

My maior vow lyes heere; this Ile obay:

Come, come Thersites, helpe to trim my Tent,

This night in banquetting must all be spent.

Away Patroclus.

With too much bloud, and too little Brain,

these two may run mad: but if with too much braine, and

too little blood, they do, Ile be a curer of madmen.

Heere's Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and

one that loues Quailes, but he has not so much Braine as

eare-wax; and the goodly transformation of Iupiter

there his Brother, the Bull, the primatiue Statue, and

oblique memoriall of Cuckolds, a thrifty shooing-horne

in a chaine, hanging at his Brothers legge, to what forme

but that he is, shold wit larded with malice, and malice

forced with wit, turne him too: to an Asse were nothing;

hee is both Asse and Oxe; to an Oxe were nothing, hee is both

Oxe and Asse: to be a Dogge, a Mule, a Cat, a Fitchew, a Toade,

a Lizard, an Owle, a Puttocke, or a Herring without a Roe, I

would not care: but to be Menelaus, I would conspire

against Destiny. Aske me not what I would be, if I were

not Thersites: for I care not to bee the lowse of a Lazar, so

I were not Menelaus. Hoy-day, spirits and fires.

We go wrong, we go wrong.

No yonder 'tis,

there where we see the light.

I trouble you.

No, not a whit.

Heere comes himselfe to guide you?

Welcome braue Hector, welcome Princes all.

So now faire Prince of Troy, I bid goodnight,

Aiax commands the guard to tend on you.

Thanks, and goodnight to the Greeks general.

Goodnight my Lord.

Goodnight sweet Lord Menelaus.

Sweet draught: sweet quoth-a? sweet sinke,

sweet sure.

Goodnight and welcom, both at once, to those

that go, or tarry.

Goodnight.

Old Nestor tarries, and you too Diomed,

Keepe Hector company an houre, or two.

I cannot Lord, I haue important businesse,

The tide whereof is now, goodnight great Hector.

Giue me your hand.

Follow his Torch, he goes

to Chalcas Tent, / Ile keepe you company.

Sweet sir, you honour me.

And so good night.

Come, come, enter my Tent.

That same Diomed's a false-hearted Rogue,

a most vniust Knaue; I will no more trust him when hee

leeres, then I will a Serpent when he hisses: he will

spend his mouth & promise, like Brabler the

Hound; but when he performes, Astronomers foretell it,

that it is prodigious, there will come some change: the

Sunne borrowes of the Moone when Diomed keepes his

word. I will rather leaue to see Hector, then not to dogge

him: they say, he keepes a Troyan Drab, and vses the

Traitour Chalcas his Tent. Ile after---Nothing but

Letcherie? All incontinent Varlets.

What are you vp here ho? speake?

Who cals?

Diomed, Chalcas (I thinke) wher's you

Daughter?

She comes to you.

Stand where the Torch may not discouer vs.

Cressid comes forth to him.

How now my charge?

Now my sweet gardian: harke a word with you.

Yea, so familiar?

She will sing any man at first sight.

And any man may finde her, if he can take her

life: she's noted.

Will you remember?

Remember? yes.

Nay, but doe then;

and let your minde be coupled with your words.

What should she remember?

List?

Sweete hony Greek, tempt me no more to folly.

Roguery.

Nay then.

Ile tell you what.

Fo, fo, eome tell a pin, you are a forsworne.-----

In faith I cannot: what would you haue me do?

A iugling tricke, to be secretly open.

What did you sweare you would bestow on me?

I prethee do not hold me to mine oath,

Bid me doe not any thing but that sweete Greeke.

Good night.

Hold, patience.

How now Troian?

No, no, good night: Ile be your foole no more.

Thy better must.

Harke one word in your eare.

O plague and madnesse!

You are moued Prince, let vs depart I pray you,

Lest your displeasure should enlarge it selfe

To wrathfull tearmes: this place is dangerous;

The time right deadly: I beseech you goe.

Behold, I pray you.

Nay, good my Lord goe off:

You flow to great distraction: come my Lord?

I pray thee stay?

You haue not patience, come.

I pray you stay? by hell and hell torments,

I will not speake a word.

And so good night.

Nay, but you part in anger.

Doth that grieue thee?

O withered truth!

Why, how now Lord?

By Ioue

I will be patient.

Gardian? why Greeke?

Fo, fo, adew, you palter.

In faith I doe not: come hither once againe.

You shake my Lord at something; will you goe?

you will breake out.

She stroakes his cheeke.

Come, come.

Nay stay, by Ioue I will not speake a word.

There is betweene my will, and all offences,

A guard of patience; stay a little while.

How the diuell Luxury with his fat rumpe and

potato finger, tickles these together: frye lechery, frye.

But will you then?

In faith I will lo; neuer trust me else.

Giue me some token for the surety of it.

Ile fetch you one.

You haue sworne patience.

Feare me not sweete Lord.

I will not be my selfe, nor haue cognition

Of what I feele: I am all patience.

Now the pledge, now, now, now.

Here Diomed, keepe this Sleeue.

O beautie! where is thy Faith?

My Lord.

I will be patient, outwardly I will.

You looke vpon that Sleeue? behold it well:

He lou'd me: O false wench: giue't me againe.

Whose was't?

It is no matter now I haue't againe.

I will not meete with you to morrow night:

I prythee Diomed visite me no more.

Now she sharpens: well said Whetstone.

I shall haue it.

What, this?

I that.

O all you gods! O prettie, prettie pledge;

Thy Maister now lies thinking in his bed

Of thee and me, and sighes, and takes my Gloue,

And giues memoriall daintie kisses to it;

As I kisse thee.

Dio. Nay, doe not snatch it from me.

Cres. He that takes that, rakes my heart withall.

I had your heart before, this followes it.

I did sweare patience.

You shall not haue it Diomed; faith you shall not:

Ile giue you something else.

I will haue this: whose was it?

It is no matter.

Come tell me whose it was?

'Twas one that lou'd me better then you will.

But now you haue it, take it.

Whose was it?

By all Dianas waiting women yond:

And by her selfe, I will not tell you whose.

To morrow will I weare it on my Helme,

And grieue his spirit that dares not challenge it.

Wert thou the diuell, and wor'st it on thy horne,

It should be challeng'd.

Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis past; and yet it is not:

I will not keepe my word.

Why then farewell,

Thou neuer shalt mocke Diomed againe.

You shall not goe: one cannot speake a word,

But it strait starts you.

I doe not like this fooling.

Nor I by Pluto: but that that likes not me,

pleases me best.

What shall I come? the houre.

I, come: O Ioue! doe, come: I shall be plagu'd.

Farewell till then.

Good night: I prythee come:

Troylus farewell; one eye yet lookes on thee;

But with my heart, the other eye, doth see.

Ah poore our sexe; this fault in vs I finde:

The errour of our eye, directs our minde.

What errour leads, must erre: O then conclude,

Mindes swai'd by eyes, are full of turpitude.

A proofe of strength she could not publish more;

Vnlesse she say, my minde is now turn'd whore.

Al's done my Lord.

It is.

Why stay we then?

To make a recordation to my soule

Of euery syllable that here was spoke:

But if I tell how these two did coact;

Shall I not lye, in publishing a truth?

Sith yet there is a credence in my heart:

An esperance so obstinately strong,

That doth inuert that test of eyes and eares;

As if those organs had deceptious functions,

Created onely to calumniate.

Was Cressed here?

I cannot coniure Troian.

She was not sure.

Most sure she was.

Why my negation hath no taste of madnesse?

Nor mine my Lord: Cressid was here but now.

Let it not be beleeu'd for womanhood:

Thinke we had mothers; doe not giue aduantage

To stubborne Criticks, apt without a theame

For deprauation, to square the generall sex

By Cressids rule. Rather thinke this not Cressid.

What hath she done Prince, that can soyle our mothers?

Nothing at all, vnlesse that this were she.

Will he swagger himselfe out on's owne eyes?

This she? no, this is Diomids Cressida:

If beautie haue a soule, this is not she:

If soules guide vowes; if vowes are sanctimonie;

If sanctimonie be the gods delight:

If there be rule in vnitie it selfe,

This is not she: O madnesse of discourse!

That cause sets vp, with, and against thy selfe

By foule authoritie: where reason can reuolt

Without perdition, and losse assume all reason,

Without reuolt. This is, and is not Cressid:

Within my soule, there doth conduce a fight

Of this strange nature, that a thing inseperate,

Diuides more wider then the skie and earth:

And yet the spacious bredth of this diuision,

Admits no Orifex for a point as subtle,

As Ariachnes broken woofe to enter:

Instance, O instance! strong as Plutoes gates:

Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heauen;

Instance, O instance, strong as heauen it selfe:

The bonds of heauen are slipt, dissolu'd, and loos'd,

And with another knot fiue finger tied,

The fractions of her faith, orts of her loue:

The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greazie reliques,

Of her ore-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed

May worthy Troylus be halfe attached

With that which here his passion doth expresse?

I Greeke: and that shall be divulged well

In Characters, as red as Mars his heart

Inflam'd with Uenus: neuer did yong man fancy

With so eternall, and so fixt a soule.

Harke Greek: as much I doe Cressida loue;

So much by weight, hate I her Diomed,

That Sleeue is mine, that heele beare in his Helme:

Were it a Caske compos'd by Vulcans skill,

My Sword should bite it: Not the dreadfull spout,

Which Shipmen doe the Hurricano call,

Constring'd in masse by the almighty Fenne,

Shall dizzie with more clamour Neptunes eare

In his discent; then shall my prompted sword,

Falling on Diomed.

Heele tickle it for his concupie.

O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false:

Let all vntruths stand by thy stained name,

And theyle seeme glorious.

O containe your selfe:

Your passion drawes eares hither.

I haue beene seeking you this houre my Lord:

Hector by this is arming him in Troy.

Aiax your Guard, staies to conduct you home.

Haue with you Prince: my curteous Lord adew:

Farewell reuolted faire: and Diomed,

Stand fast, and weare a Castle on thy head.

Ile bring you to the Gates.

Accept distracted thankes.

Would I could meete that roague Diomed, I

would croke like a Rauen: I would bode, I would bode:

Patroclus will giue me any thing for the intelligence of

this whore: the Parrot will not doe more for an Almond,

then he for a commodious drab: Lechery, lechery, still

warres and lechery, nothing else holds fashion. A burning

diuell take them.

When was my Lord so much vngently temper'd,

To stop his eares against admonishment?

Vnarme, vnarme, and doe not fight to day.

You traine me to offend you: get you gone.

By the euerlasting gods, Ile goe.

My dreames will sure proue ominous to the day.

No more I say.

Where is my brother Hector?

Here sister, arm'd, and bloudy in intent:

Consort with me in loud and deere petition:

Pursue we him on knees: for I haue dreampt

Of bloudy turbulence; and this whole night

Hath nothing beene but shapes, and formes of slaughter.

O, 'tis true.

Ho? bid my Trumpet sound.

No notes of sallie, for the heauens, sweet brother.

Begon I say: the gods haue heard me sweare.

The gods are deafe to hot and peeuish vowes;

They are polluted offrings, more abhord

Then spotted Liuers in the sacrifice.

O be perswaded, doe not count it holy,

To hurt by being iust; it is as lawfull:

For we would count giue much to as violent thefts,

And rob in the behalfe of charitie.

It is the purpose that makes strong the vowe;

But vowes to euery purpose must not hold:

Vnatme sweete Hector.

Hold you still I say;

Mine honour keepes the weather of my fate:

Life euery man holds deere, but the deere man

Holds honor farre more precious, deere, then life.

How now yong man? mean'st thou to fight to day?

Cassandra, call my father to perswade.

No faith yong Troylus; doffe thy harnesse youth:

I am to day ith'vaine of Chiualrie:

Let grow thy Sinews till their knots be strong;

And tempt not yet the brushes of the warre.

Vnarme thee, goe; and doubt thou not braue boy,

Ile stand today, for thee, and me, and Troy.

Brother, you haue a vice of mercy in you;

Which better fits a Lyon, then a man.

What vice is that? good Troylus chide me for it.

When many times the captiue Grecian fals,

Euen in the fanne and winde of your faire Sword:

You bid them rise, and liue.

O 'tis faire play.

Fooles play, by heauen Hector.

How now? how now?

For th'loue of all the gods

Let's leaue the Hermit Pitty with our Mothers;

And when we haue our Armors buckled on,

The venom'd vengeance ride vpon our swords,

Spur them to ruthfull worke, reine them from ruth.

Fie sauage, fie.

Hector, then 'tis warres.

Troylus, I would not haue you fight to day.

Who should with-hold me?

Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars,

Beckning with fierie trunchion my retire;

Not Priamus, and Hecuba on knees;

Their eyes ore-galled with recourse of teares;

Nor you my brother, with your true sword drawne

Oppos'd to hinder me, should stop my way:

But by my ruine.

Lay hold vpon him Priam, hold him fast:

He is thy crutch; now if thou loose thy stay,

Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,

Fall all together.

Come Hector, come, goe backe:

Thy wife hath dreampt: thy mother hath had visions;

Cassandra doth foresee; and I my selfe,

Am like a Prophet suddenly enrapt,

to tell thee that this day is ominous:

Therefore come backe.

Aneas is a field,

And I do stand engag'd to many Greekes,

Euen in the faith of valour, to appeare

This morning to them.

I, but thou shalt not goe,

I must not breake my faith:

You know me dutifull, therefore deare sir,

Let me not shame respect; but giue me leaue

To take that course by your consent and voice,

Which you doe here forbid me, Royall Priam.

O Priam, yeelde not to him.

Doe not deere father.

Andromache I am offended with you:

Vpon the loue you beare me, get you in.

This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girle,

Makes all these bodements.

O farewell, deere Hector:

Looke how thou diest; looke how thy eye turnes pale:

Looke how thy wounds doth bleede at many vents:

Harke how Troy roares; how Hecuba cries out;

How poore Andromache shrils her dolour forth;

Behold distraction, frenzie, and amazement,

Like witlesse Antickes one another meete,

And all cry Hector, Hectors dead: O Hector!

Away, away.

Farewell: yes, soft: Hector I take my leaue;

Thou do'st thy selfe, and all our Troy deceiue.

You are amaz'd, my Liege, at her exclaime:

Goe in and cheere the Towne, weele forth and fight:

Doe deedes of praise, and tell you them at night.

Farewell: the gods with safetie stand about thee.

They are at it, harke: proud Diomed, beleeue

I come to loose my arme, or winne my sleeue.

Doe you heare my Lord? do you heare?

What now?

Here's a Letter come from yond poore girle.

Let me reade.

A whorson tisicke, a whorson rascally tisicke,

so troubles me; and the foolish fortune of this girle, and

what one thing, what another, that I shall leaue you one

o'th's dayes: and I haue a rheume in mine eyes too; and

such an ache in my bones; that vnlesse a man were curst,

I cannot tell what to thinke on't. What sayes shee there?

Words, words, meere words, no matter from the heart;

Th'effect doth operate another way.

Goe winde to winde, there turne and change together:

My loue with words and errors still she feedes;

But edifies another with her deedes. Pand. Why, but heare you? Troy. Hence brother lackie; ignomie and shame / Pursue thy life, and liue aye with thy name.

Now they are clapper-clawing one another,

Ile goe looke on: that dissembling abhominable varlet

Diomede, has got that same scuruie, doting, foolish yong

knaues Sleeue of Troy, there in his Helme: I would faine

see them meet; that, that same yong Troian asse, that

loues the whore there, might send that Greekish

whore-maisterly villaine, with the Sleeue, backe to the

dissembling luxurious drabbe, of a sleeuelesse errant.

O'th'tother side, the pollicie of those craftie swearing

rascals; that stole old Mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor:

and that same dog-foxe Vlisses is not prou'd

worth a Black-berry. They set me vp in pollicy, that

mungrill curre Aiax, against that dogge of as bad a kinde,

Achilles. And now is the curre Aiax prouder then the curre

Achilles, and will not arme to day. Whereupon, the Grecians

began to proclaime barbarisme; and pollicie growes

into an ill opinion.

Soft, here comes Sleeue, and th'other.

Flye not: for should'st thou take the Riuer Stix,

I would swim after.

Thou do'st miscall retire:

I doe not flye; but aduantagious care

Withdrew me from the oddes of multitude:

Haue at thee?

Hold thy whore Grecian: now for thy

whore Troian: Now the Sleeue, now the Sleeue.

What art thou Greek? art thou for Hectors match?

Art thou of bloud, and honour?

No, no: I am a rascall: a scuruie railing knaue:

a very filthy roague.

I doe beleeue thee, liue.

God a mercy, that thou wilt beleeue me; but

a plague breake thy necke---for frighting me: what's

become of the wenching rogues? I thinke they haue

swallowed one another. I would laugh at that miracle----

yet in a sort, lecherie eates it selfe: Ile seeke them.

Goe, goe, my seruant, take thou Troylus Horse;

Present the faire Steede to my Lady Cressid:

Fellow, commend my seruice to her beauty;

Tell her, I haue chastis'd the amorous Troyan.

And am her Knight by proofe.

I goe my Lord.

Renew, renew, the fierce Polidamus

Hath beate downe Menon: bastard Margarelon

Hath Doreus prisoner.

And stands Calossus-wise wauing his beame,

Vpon the pashed courses of the Kings:

Epistropus and Cedus, Polixines is slaine;

Amphimacus, and Thous deadly hurt;

Patroclus tane or slaine, and Palamedes

Sore hurt and bruised; the dreadfull Sagittary

Appauls our numbers, haste we Diomed

To re-enforcement, or we perish all.

Coe beare Patroclus body to Achilles,

And bid the snaile-pac'd Aiax arme for shame;

There is a thousand Hectors in the field:

Now here he fights on Galathe his Horse,

And there lacks worke: anon he's there a foote,

And there they flye or dye, like scaled sculs,

Before the belching Whale; then is he yonder,

And there the straying Greekes, ripe for his edge,

Fall downe before him, like the mowers swath;

Here, there, and euery where, he leaues and takes;

Dexteritie so obaying appetite,

That what he will, he does, and does so much,

That proofe is call'd impossibility.

Oh, courage, courage Princes: great Achilles

Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance;

Patroclus wounds haue rouz'd his drowzie bloud,

Together with his mangled Myrmidons,

That noselesse, handlesse, hackt and chipt, come to him;

Crying on Hector. Aiax hath lost a friend,

And foames at mouth, and he is arm'd, and at it:

Roaring for Troylus; who hath done to day.

Mad and fantasticke execution;

Engaging and redeeming of himselfe,

With such a carelesse force, and forcelesse care,

As if that luck in very spight of cunning,

bad him win all.

Troylus, thou coward Troylus.

I, there, there.

So, so, we draw together.

Where is this Hector?

Come, come, thou boy-queller, shew thy face:

Know what it is to meete Achilles angry.

Hector, wher's Hector? I will none but Hector.

Troylus, thou coward Troylus, shew thy head.

Troylus, I say, wher's Troylus?

What would'st thou?

I would correct him.

Were I the Generall, / Thou should'st haue my office,

Ere that correction: Troylus I say, what Troylus?

Oh traitour Diomed! / Turne thy false face thou traytor,

And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse.

Ha, art thou there?

Ile fight with him alone, stand Diomed.

He is my prize, I will not looke vpon.

Come both you coging Greekes, haue at you both.

Yea Troylus? O well fought my yongest Brother.

Now doe I see thee; haue at thee Hector.

Pause if thou wilt.

I doe disdaine thy curtesie, proud Troian;

Be happy that my armes are out of vse:

My rest and negligence befriends thee now,

But thou anon shalt heare of me againe:

Till when, goe seeke thy fortune.

Fare thee well:

I would haue beene much more a fresher man,

Had I expected thee:

how now my Brother?

Aiax hath tane Aneas; shall it be?

No, by the flame of yonder glorious heauen,

He shall not carry him: Ile be tane too,

Or bring him off: Fate heare me what I say;

I wreake not, though thou end my life to day.

Stand, stand, thou Greeke, / Thou art a goodly marke:

No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well,

Ile frush it, and vnlocke the riuets all,

But Ile be maister of it: wilt thou not beast abide?

Why then flye on, Ile hunt thee for thy hide.

Come here about me you my Myrmidons:

Marke what I say; attend me where I wheele:

Strike not a stroake, but keepe your selues in breath;

And when I haue the bloudy Hector found,

Empale him with your weapons round about:

In fellest manner execute your arme.

Follow me sirs, and my proceedings eye;

It is decreed, Hector the great must dye.

The Cuckold and the Cuckold maker are at it:

now bull, now dogge, lowe; Paris lowe; now my

double hen'd sparrow; lowe Paris, lowe; the bull

has the game: ware hornes ho?

Turne slaue and fight.

What art thou?

A Bastard Sonne of Priams.

I am a Bastard too, I loue Bastards, I am a

Bastard begot, Bastard instructed, Bastard in minde,

Bastard in valour, in euery thing illegitimate: one Beare

will not bite another, and wherefore should one Bastard?

take heede, the quarrel's most ominous to vs: if

the Sonne of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts

iudgement: farewell Bastard.

The diuell take thee coward.

Most putrified core so faire without:

Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.

Now is my daies worke done; Ile take good breath:

Rest Sword, thou hast thy fill of bloud and death.

Looke Hector how the Sunne begins to set;

How vgly night comes breathing at his heeles,

Euen with the vaile and darking of the Sunne.

To close the day vp, Hectors life is done.

I am vnarm'd, forgoe this vantage Greeke.

Strike fellowes, strike, this is the man I seeke.

So Illion fall thou: now Troy sinke downe;

Here lyes thy heart, thy sinewes, and thy bone.

On Myrmidons, cry you all a maine,

Achilles hath the mighty Hector slaine.

Harke, a retreat vpon our Grecian part.

The Troian Trumpets sounds the like my Lord.

The dragon wing of night ore-spreds the earth

And stickler-like the Armies seperates

My halfe supt Sword, that frankly would haue fed,

Pleas'd with this dainty bed; thus goes to bed.

Come, tye his body to my horses tayle;

Along the field, I will the Troian traile.

Sound Retreat. Shout. Enter Agamemnon, Aiax, Menelaus, Nestor,

Harke, harke, what shout is that?

Peace Drums.

Achilles, Achilles, Hector's

slaine, Achilles.

The bruite is, Hector's slaine, and by Achilles.

If it be so, yet braglesse let it be:

Great Hector was a man as good as he.

March patiently along; let one be sent

To pray Achilles see vs at our Tent.

If in his death the gods haue vs befrended,

Great Troy is ours, and our sharpe wars are ended.

Stand hoe, yet are we maisters of the field,

Neuer goe home; here starue we out the night.

Hector is slaine.

Hector? the gods forbid.

Hee's dead: and at the murtherers Horses taile,

In beastly sort, drag'd through the shamefull Field.

Frowne on you heauens, effect your rage with speede:

Sit gods vpon your throanes, and smile at Troy.

I say at once, let your briefe plagues be mercy,

And linger not our sure destructions on.

My Lord, you doe discomfort all the Hoste.

You vnderstand me not, that tell me so:

I doe not speake of flight, of feare, of death,

But dare all imminence that gods and men,

Addresse their dangers in. Hector is gone:

Who shall tell Priam so? or Hecuba?

Let him that will a screechoule aye be call'd,

Goe in to Troy, and say there, Hector's dead:

There is a word will Priam turne to stone;

Make wels, and Niobes of the maides and wiues;

Coole statues of the youth: and in a word,

Scarre Troy out of it selfe. But march away,

Hector is dead: there is no more to say.

Stay yet: you vile abhominable Tents,

Thus proudly pight vpon our Phrygian plaines:

Let Titan rise as early as he dare,

Ile through, and through you; & thou great siz'd coward:

No space of Earth shall sunder our two hates,

Ile haunt thee, like a wicked conscience still,

That mouldeth goblins swift as frensies thoughts.

Strike a free march to Troy, with comfort goe:

Hope of reuenge, shall hide our inward woe.

But heare you? heare you?

Hence broker, lackie, ignomy, and shame

Pursue thy life, and liue aye with thy name.

A goodly medcine for mine aking bones:

oh world, world, world! thus is the poore agent dispisde:

Oh traitours and bawdes; how earnestly are you

set aworke, and how ill requited? why should our

indeuour be so desir'd, and the performance so

loath'd? What Verse for it? what instance for it? let

me see.

Full merrily the humble Bee doth sing,

Till he hath lost his hony, and his sting.

And being once subdu'd in armed taile,

Sweete hony, and sweete notes together faile.

Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted

cloathes;

As many as be here of Panders hall,

Your eyes halfe out, weepe out at Pandar's fall:

Or if you cannot weepe, yet giue some grones;

Though not for me, yet for your aking bones:

Brethren and sisters of the hold-dore trade,

Some two months hence, my will shall here be made:

It should be now, but that my feare is this:

Some galled Goose of Winchester would hisse:

Till then, Ile sweate, and seeke about for eases;

And at that time bequeath you my diseases.

I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine tonight,

Which with my scimitar I'll cool tomorrow.

Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.

Here comes Thersites.

How now, thou core of envy?

Thou crusty botch of nature, what's the news?

Why, thou picture of what thou seemest,

and idol of idiot-worshippers, here's a letter for thee.

From whence, fragment?

Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.

Who keeps the tent now?

The surgeon's box, or the patient's wound.

Well said, adversity! And what need these

tricks?

Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy

talk. Thou art thought to be Achilles' male varlet.

Male varlet, you rogue? What's that?

Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten

diseases of the south, guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs,

loads o' gravel i'th' back, lethargies, cold palsies, and

the like, take and take again such preposterous

discoveries!

Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou,

what mean'st thou to curse thus?

Do I curse thee?

Why no, you ruinous butt, you whoreson

indistinguishable cur.

No! Why art thou then exasperate, thou idle

immaterial skein of sleave-silk, thou green sarcenet

flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal's purse,

thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered with such

waterflies, diminutives of nature!

Out, gall!

Finch-egg!

My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite

From my great purpose in tomorrow's battle.

Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba,

A token from her daughter, my fair love,

Both taxing me and gaging me to keep

An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it.

Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay;

My major vow lies here; this I'll obey. –

Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent;

This night in banqueting must all be spent. –

Away, Patroclus!

With too much blood and too little brain,

these two may run mad; but if with too much brain and

too little blood they do, I'll be a curer of madmen.

Here's Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and

one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain as

ear-wax; and the goodly transformation of Jupiter

there, his brother, the bull, the primitive statue and

oblique memorial of cuckolds, a thrifty shoeing-horn

in a chain, hanging at his brother's leg – to what form

but that he is should wit larded with malice, and malice

forced with wit, turn him to? To an ass were nothing;

he is both ass and ox. To an ox were nothing; he is both

ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad,

a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I

would not care; but to be Menelaus I would conspire

against destiny. Ask me not what I would be, if I were

not Thersites; for I care not to be the louse of a lazar so

I were not Menelaus. – Hoyday! Spirits and fires!

We go wrong, we go wrong.

No, yonder 'tis –

There, where we see the lights.

I trouble you.

No, not a whit.

Here comes himself to guide you.

Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, princes all.

So now, fair prince of Troy, I bid good night.

Ajax commands the guard to tend on you.

Thanks, and good night to the Greeks' general.

Good night, my lord.

Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus.

Sweet draught, sweet, quoth 'a! Sweet sink,

sweet sewer!

Good night and welcome both at once to those

That go or tarry.

Good night.

Old Nestor tarries, and you too, Diomed;

Keep Hector company an hour or two.

I cannot, lord; I have important business,

The tide whereof is now. – Good night, great Hector.

Give me your hand.

(aside to Troilus)

Follow his torch; he goes

To Calchas' tent. I'll keep you company.

(aside to Ulysses)

Sweet sir, you honour me.

And so, good night.

Come, come, enter my tent.

That same Diomed's a false-hearted rogue,

a most unjust knave; I will no more trust him when he

leers than I will a serpent when he hisses. He will

spend his mouth, and promise, like Brabbler the

hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it,

that it is prodigious, there will come some change. The

sun borrows of the moon when Diomed keeps his

word. I will rather leave to see Hector than not to dog

him: they say he keeps a Trojan drab, and uses the

traitor Calchas his tent. I'll after. – Nothing but

lechery! All incontinent varlets!

What, are you up here, ho? Speak.

(within) Who calls?

Diomed. – Calchas, I think? Where's your

daughter?

(within)

She comes to you.

Stand where the torch may not discover us.

Cressid comes forth to him.

How now, my charge?

Now, my sweet guardian! – Hark, a word with you.

Yea, so familiar!

She will sing any man at first sight.

And any man may sing her, if he can take her

clef: she's noted.

Will you remember?

Remember? Yes.

Nay, but do, then,

And let your mind be coupled with your words.

What should she remember?

Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.

Roguery!

Nay then –

I'll tell you what –

Foh, foh, come, tell a pin! You are forsworn.

In faith I cannot; what would you have me do?

A juggling trick – to be secretly open.

What did you swear you would bestow on me?

I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath;

Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek.

Good night.

Hold, patience!

How now, Trojan?

Diomed –

No, no, good night; I'll be your fool no more.

Thy better must.

Hark, one word in your ear.

O plague and madness!

You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray you,

Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself

To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous,

The time right deadly; I beseech you, go.

Behold, I pray you.

Nay, good my lord, go off.

You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.

I pray thee, stay.

You have not patience; come.

I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell's torments,

I will not speak a word.

And so, good night.

Nay, but you part in anger.

Doth that grieve thee?

O withered truth!

Why, how now, lord?

By Jove,

I will be patient.

Guardian! Why, Greek?

Foh, foh, adieu; you palter.

In faith, I do not: come hither once again.

You shake, my lord, at something; will you go?

You will break out.

She strokes his cheek!

Come, come.

Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word.

There is between my will and all offences

A guard of patience; stay a little while.

How the devil luxury, with his fat rump and

potato-finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!

But will you, then?

In faith, I will, lo; never trust me else.

Give me some token for the surety of it.

I'll fetch you one.

You have sworn patience.

Fear me not, sweet lord;

I will not be myself, nor have cognition

Of what I feel: I am all patience.

Now the pledge; now, now, now!

Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.

O beauty, where is thy faith?

My lord –

I will be patient; outwardly I will.

You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.

He loved me – O false wench! – Give't me again.

Whose was't?

It is no matter, now I have't again.

I will not meet with you tomorrow night;

I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.

Now she sharpens – well said, whetstone!

I shall have it.

What, this?

Ay, that.

O all you gods! – O pretty, pretty pledge!

Thy master now lies thinking in his bed

Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,

And gives memorial dainty kisses to it

As I kiss thee –

Nay, do not snatch it from me;

He that takes that doth take my heart withal.

I had your heart before; this follows it.

I did swear patience.

You shall not have it, Diomed, faith, you shall not;

I'll give you something else.

I will have this. Whose was it?

It is no matter.

Come, tell me whose it was.

'Twas one's that loved me better than you will.

But now you have it, take it.

Whose was it?

By all Diana's waiting-women yond,

And by herself, I will not tell you whose.

Tomorrow will I wear it on my helm;

And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.

Wert thou the devil, and wor'st it on thy horn,

It should be challenged.

Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis done, 'tis past – and yet it is not;

I will not keep my word.

Why then, farewell;

Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.

You shall not go; one cannot speak a word

But it straight starts you.

I do not like this fooling.

Nor I, by Pluto: but that that likes not you

Pleases me best.

What, shall I come? The hour?

Ay, come – O Jove! – do come: I shall be plagued.

Farewell till then.

Good night; I prithee come.

Troilus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee,

But with my heart the other eye doth see.

Ah, poor our sex! This fault in us I find,

The error of our eye directs our mind:

What error leads must err – O, then conclude,

Minds swayed by eyes are full of turpitude.

A proof of strength she could not publish more,

Unless she said ‘ My mind is now turned whore.’

All's done, my lord.

It is.

Why stay we then?

To make a recordation to my soul

Of every syllable that here was spoke.

But if I tell how these two did co-act,

Shall I not lie in publishing a truth?

Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,

An esperance so obstinately strong,

That doth invert th' attest of eyes and ears,

As if those organs had deceptious functions,

Created only to calumniate.

Was Cressid here?

I cannot conjure, Trojan.

She was not, sure.

Most sure she was.

Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.

Nor mine, my lord: Cressid was here but now.

Let it not be believed for womanhood.

Think, we had mothers: do not give advantage

To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme

For depravation, to square the general sex

By Cressid's rule; rather think this not Cressid.

What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers?

Nothing at all, unless that this were she.

Will he swagger himself out on's own eyes?

This she? No, this is Diomed's Cressida.

If beauty have a soul, this is not she;

If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimony,

If sanctimony be the gods' delight,

If there be rule in unity itself,

This is not she. O madness of discourse,

That cause sets up with and against itself!

Bifold authority, where reason can revolt

Without perdition, and loss assume all reason

Without revolt. This is, and is not, Cressid!

Within my soul there doth conduce a fight

Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate

Divides more wider than the sky and earth;

And yet the spacious breadth of this division

Admits no orifex for a point as subtle

As Ariachne's broken woof to enter.

Instance, O instance, strong as Pluto's gates!

Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven.

Instance, O instance, strong as heaven itself!

The bonds of heaven are slipped, dissolved, and loosed;

And with another knot, five-finger-tied,

The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,

The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics

Of her o'ereaten faith, are bound to Diomed.

May worthy Troilus be half attached

With that which here his passion doth express?

Ay, Greek, and that shall be divulged well

In characters as red as Mars his heart

Inflamed with Venus; never did young man fancy

With so eternal and so fixed a soul.

Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love,

So much by weight hate I her Diomed.

That sleeve is mine that he'll bear in his helm;

Were it a casque composed by Vulcan's skill,

My sword should bite it; not the dreadful spout,

Which shipmen do the hurricano call,

Constringed in mass by the almighty sun,

Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune's ear

In his descent than shall my prompted sword

Falling on Diomed.

He'll tickle it for his concupy.

O Cressid! O false Cressid! False, false, false!

Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,

And they'll seem glorious.

O, contain yourself;

Your passion draws ears hither.

I have been seeking you this hour, my lord.

Hector by this is arming him in Troy.

Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.

Have with you, Prince. – My courteous lord, adieu. –

Farewell, revolted fair! – and, Diomed,

Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head!

I'll bring you to the gates.

Accept distracted thanks.

Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I

would croak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode.

Patroclus will give me anything for the intelligence of

this whore; the parrot will not do more for an almond

than he for a commodious drab. Lechery, lechery, still

wars and lechery; nothing else holds fashion! A burning

devil take them!

When was my lord so much ungently tempered,

To stop his ears against admonishment?

Unarm, unarm, and do not fight today.

You train me to offend you; get you gone.

By all the everlasting gods, I'll go!

My dreams will sure prove ominous to the day.

No more, I say.

Where is my brother Hector?

Here, sister; armed, and bloody in intent.

Consort with me in loud and dear petition;

Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamed

Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night

Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.

O, 'tis true.

Ho! Bid my trumpet sound!

No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother.

Be gone, I say; the gods have heard me swear.

The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows;

They are polluted offerings, more abhorred

Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.

O, be persuaded! Do not count it holy

To hurt by being just; it is as lawful,

For we would give much, to use violent thefts,

And rob in the behalf of charity.

It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;

But vows to every purpose must not hold.

Unarm, sweet Hector.

Hold you still, I say;

Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate.

Life every man holds dear, but the dear man

Holds honour far more precious-dear than life.

How now, young man, mean'st thou to fight today?

Cassandra, call my father to persuade.

No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth.

I am today i'the vein of chivalry.

Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong,

And tempt not yet the brushes of the war.

Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy,

I'll stand today for thee, and me, and Troy.

Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you,

Which better fits a lion than a man.

What vice is that? Good Troilus, chide me for it.

When many times the captive Grecian falls,

Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,

You bid them rise and live.

O,'tis fair play.

Fool's play, by heaven, Hector.

How now, how now?

For th' love of all the gods,

Let's leave the hermit Pity with our mothers;

And when we have our armours buckled on,

The venomed vengeance ride upon our swords,

Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth!

Fie, savage, fie!

Hector, then 'tis wars.

Troilus, I would not have you fight today.

Who should withhold me?

Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars

Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire;

Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,

Their eyes o'ergalled with recourse of tears;

Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,

Opposed to hinder me, should stop my way,

But by my ruin.

Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast;

He is thy crutch. Now if thou lose thy stay,

Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,

Fall all together.

Come, Hector, come; go back.

Thy wife hath dreamed, thy mother hath had visions,

Cassandra doth foresee, and I myself

Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt,

To tell thee that this day is ominous.

Therefore, come back.

Aeneas is a-field,

And I do stand engaged to many Greeks,

Even in the faith of valour, to appear

This morning to them.

Ay, but thou shalt not go.

I must not break my faith.

You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir,

Let me not shame respect, but give me leave

To take that course by your consent and voice,

Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam.

O Priam, yield not to him!

Do not, dear father.

Andromache, I am offended with you.

Upon the love you bear me, get you in.

This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl

Makes all these bodements.

O, farewell, dear Hector!

Look how thou diest! Look, how thy eye turns pale!

Look how thy wounds do bleed at many vents!

Hark how Troy roars, how Hecuba cries out,

How poor Andromache shrills her dolour forth!

Behold distraction, frenzy, and amazement

Like witless antics one another meet,

And all cry ‘ Hector! Hector's dead!’ – O Hector!

Away! Away!

Farewell – yes, soft: Hector, I take my leave.

Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.

You are amazed, my liege, at her exclaim.

Go in, and cheer the town. We'll forth, and fight,

Do deeds worth praise, and tell you them at night.

Farewell; the gods with safety stand about thee!

They are at it, hark! – Proud Diomed, believe

I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve.

Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear?

What now?

Here's a letter come from yond poor girl.

Let me read.

A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick

so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl; and

what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you one

o' these days; and I have rheum in mine eyes too, and

such an ache in my bones that unless a man were curst

I cannot tell what to think on't. – What says she there?

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart;

Th' effect doth operate another way.

Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together.

My love with words and errors still she feeds,

But edifies another with her deeds.

Now they are clapper-clawing one another;

I'll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlet

Diomed has 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 luxurious drab of a sleeveless errand.

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 dog 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

begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows

into an ill opinion.

Soft! Here comes sleeve, and t' other.

Fly not, for shouldst thou take the river Styx,

I would swim after.

Thou dost miscall retire;

I do not fly, but advantageous care

Withdrew me from the odds of multitude.

Have at thee.

Hold thy whore, Grecian! Now for thy

whore, Trojan! Now the sleeve, now the sleeve!

What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector's match?

Art thou of blood and honour?

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.

Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse;

Present the fair steed to my Lady Cressid.

Fellow, commend my service to her beauty;

Tell her I have chastised the amorous Trojan,

And am her knight by proof.

I go, my lord.

Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas

Hath beat down Menon; bastard Margarelon

Hath Doreus prisoner,

And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,

Upon the pashed corpses of the kings

Epistrophus and Cedius. Polyxenes is slain,

Amphimachus and Thoas deadly hurt,

Patroclus ta'en or slain, and Palamedes

Sore hurt and bruised; the dreadful Sagittary

Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed,

To reinforcement, or we perish all.

Go, bear Patroclus' body to Achilles,

And bid the snail-paced Ajax arm for shame. –

There is a thousand Hectors in the field;

Now here he fights on Galathe his horse,

And there lacks work; anon he's there afoot,

And there they fly or die, like scaled schools

Before the belching whale; then is he yonder,

And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge,

Fall down before him, like the mower's swath:

Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes,

Dexterity so obeying appetite

That what he will he does; and does so much

That proof is called impossibility.

O, courage, courage, princes! Great Achilles

Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance;

Patroclus' wounds have roused his drowsy blood,

Together with his mangled Myrmidons,

That noseless, handless, hacked and chipped, come to him,

Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend,

And foams at mouth, and he is armed and at it,

Roaring for Troilus, who hath done today

Mad and fantastic execution,

Engaging and redeeming of himself

With such a careless force and forceless care

As if that luck, in very spite of cunning,

Bade him win all.

Troilus! Thou coward Troilus!

Ay, there, there!

So, so, we draw together.

Where is this Hector? –

Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face;

Know what it is to meet Achilles angry –

Hector! Where's Hector? I will none but Hector.

Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head!

Troilus, I say! Where's Troilus?

What wouldst thou?

I would correct him.

Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office

Ere that correction. – Troilus, I say! What, Troilus!

O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor,

And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse!

Ha, art thou there?

I'll fight with him alone; stand, Diomed.

He is my prize; I will not look upon.

Come, both you cogging Greeks; have at you both!

Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother!

Now do I see thee, ha? Have at thee, Hector!

Pause, if thou wilt.

I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan;

Be happy that my arms are out of use.

My rest and negligence befriends thee now,

But thou anon shalt hear of me again;

Till when, go seek thy fortune.

Fare thee well:

I would have been much more a fresher man,

Had I expected thee.

How now, my brother!

Ajax hath ta'en Aeneas. Shall it be?

No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,

He shall not carry him! I'll be ta'en too

Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say!

I reck not though thou end my life today.

Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark –

No? Wilt thou not? – I like thy armour well;

I'll frush it, and unlock the rivets all,

But I'll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide?

Why then, fly on; I'll hunt thee for thy hide.

Come here about me, you my Myrmidons;

Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel;

Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath,

And when I have the bloody Hector found,

Impale him with your weapons round about;

In fellest manner execute your arms.

Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye.

It is decreed Hector the great must die.

The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at

it. Now, bull! Now, dog! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo! Now, my

double-horned Spartan! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo! – The bull

has the game; 'ware horns, ho!

Turn, slave, and fight.

What art thou?

A bastard son of Priam's.

I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a

bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind,

bastard in valour, in everything illegitimate. One bear

will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard?

Take heed, the quarrel's most ominous to us – if

the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts

judgement. Farewell, bastard.

The devil take thee, coward!

Most putrefied core, so fair without,

Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.

Now is my day's work done; I'll take good breath.

Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death.

Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set,

How ugly night comes breathing at his heels;

Even with the vail and dark'ning of the sun

To close the day up, Hector's life is done.

I am unarmed; forgo this vantage, Greek.

Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.

So, Ilium, fall thou; now, Troy, sink down!

Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. –

On, Myrmidons; and cry you all amain:

‘ Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’

Hark, a retire upon our Grecian part.

The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord.

The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth,

And, stickler-like, the armies separates.

My half-supped sword, that frankly would have fed,

Pleased with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.

Come, tie his body to my horse's tail;

Along the field I will the Trojan trail.

Hark, hark, what shout is that?

Peace, drums!

(shouting within)

Achilles! Achilles! Hector's

slain! Achilles!

The bruit is Hector's slain, and by Achilles.

If it be so, yet bragless let it be;

Great Hector was a man as good as he.

March patiently along. Let one be sent

To pray Achilles see us at our tent. –

If in his death the gods have us befriended,

Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.

Stand, ho! Yet are we masters of the field.

Never go home; here starve we out the night.

Hector is slain.

Hector? The gods forbid!

He's dead; and at the murderer's horse's tail,

In beastly sort, dragged through the shameful field.

Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed!

Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy!

I say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy,

And linger not our sure destructions on!

My lord, you do discomfort all the host.

You understand me not that tell me so.

I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death,

But dare all imminence that gods and men

Address their dangers in. Hector is gone;

Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?

Let him that will a screech-owl aye be called

Go into Troy, and say there ‘ Hector's dead ’ –

There is a word will Priam turn to stone,

Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,

Cold statues of the youth, and, in a word,

Scare Troy out of itself. But march away;

Hector is dead; there is no more to say –

Stay yet. You vile abominable tents,

Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,

Let Titan rise as early as he dare,

I'll through and through you! – And, thou great-sized coward,

No space of earth shall sunder our two hates;

I'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,

That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts. –

Strike a free march to Troy! With comfort go;

Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.

But hear you, hear you!

Hence, broker-lackey! Ignomy and shame

Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!

A goodly medicine for mine aching bones! –

O world, world, world! Thus is the poor agent despised!

O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you

set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our

endeavour be so desired, and the performance so

loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? – Let

me see:

Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing,

Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;

And being once subdued in armed tail,

Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.

Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted

cloths:

As many as be here of Pandar's hall,

Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's fall;

Or if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,

Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.

Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,

Some two months hence my will shall here be made;

It should be now, but that my fear is this:

Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.

Till then I'll sweat, and seek about for eases,

And at that time bequeath you my diseases.