Look that you love your wife; her worth worth yours.— I find an apt remission in myself;

And yet here's one in place I cannot pardon.-

To Lucio] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a cow

ard,

One all of luxury, an ass, a madman;
Wherein have I deservèd so of you,
That you extol me thus?

Lucio. Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may; but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped.

Duke. Whipp'd first, sir, and hang'd after.-
Proclaim it, provost, round about the city,
Is any woman wrong'd by this lewd fellow,-
As I have heard him swear himself there's one
Whom he begot with child,- let her appear,
And he shall marry her; the nuptial finish'd,
Let him be whipp'd and hang'd."

Lucio. I beseech your highness, do not marry me to a whore ! Your highness said even now, I made you a duke good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.

Duke. Upon mine honor, thou shalt marry her.

Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal

Remit thy other forfeits.-Take him to prison;
And see our pleasure herein executed.

Lucio. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging.

Duke. Slandering a prince deserves it.—

[Exeunt Officers with Lucio, She, Claudio, that you wrong'd, look you restore.—

Joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo :

I have confess'd her, and I know her virtue.

Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness:
There's more behind that is more gratulate.—
Thanks, provost, for thy care and secrecy :
We shall employ thee in a worthier place.-
Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home
The head of Ragozine for Claudio's:

Th' offense pardons itself.- Dear Isabel,
I have a motion much imports your good:

Whereto if you'll a willing ear incline,

What's mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.—
So, bring us to our palace; where we'll show
What's yet behind, that's meet you all should know.

[Exeunt.

MARGARELON, a bastard son ALEXANDER, servant to Cres

of Priam.

sida.

ENEAS, Trojan command- Servant to Troilus.

ANTENOR,

CALCHAS, a Trojan priest Servant to Diomedes. taking part with the Greeks.

PANDARUS, uncle to Cressida.HELEN, wife to Menelaus. AGAMEMNON, the Grecian gen-ANDROMACHE, wife to Hector. CASSANDRA, daughter of Pri◄ am; a prophetess.

eral.

MENELAUS, his brother.

THERSITES, a deformed and CRESSIDA, daughter of Calchas, scurrilous Grecian.

Trojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants.
SCENE-Troy, and the Grecian camp before it.

PROLOGUE.

In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece
The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf'd,
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships,
Fraught with the ministers and instruments
Of cruel war sixty and nine, that wore
Their crownets regal, from th' 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, Helias, 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, Trojan 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.

ACT I.

SCENE I. Troy. Before PRIAM's palace.

Enter TROILUS armed, and PANDARUS.
Tro. 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 !
Pan. Will this gear ne'er be mended?

Tro. The Greeks are strong, and skillful 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 unpractic'd infancy.

Pan. 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 needs tarry the grind. ing.

Tro. Have I not tarried?

Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting. Tro. Have I not tarried?

Pan. Ay, the boiting; but you must tarry the leavening. Tro. Still have I tarried.

Pan. 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. Tro. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be,

Doth lesser blench at sufferance 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 is she thence? Pan. Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else.

Tro. 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.

Pan. 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 Tro. 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