SCENE II.—­Troy.

  Enter PANDARUS and TROILUS.

Troil. Why should I fight without the Trojan walls,
Who, without fighting, am o’erthrown within? 
The Trojan who is master of a soul,
Let him to battle; Troilus has none.

Pand. Will this never be at an end with you?

Troil. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength,
Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness wary;
But I am weaker than a woman’s tears,
Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance,
And artless as unpractised infancy.

Pand Well, I have told you enough of this; for my part I’ll not meddle nor make any further in your love; he, that will eat of the roastmeat, must stay for the kindling of the fire.

Troil. Have I not staid?

Pand. Ay, the kindling; but you must stay the spitting of the meat.

Troil. Have I not staid?

Pand. Ay, the spitting; but there’s two words to a bargain; you must stay the roasting too.

Troil. Still have I staid; and still the farther off.

Pand. That’s but the roasting, but there’s more in this word stay; there’s the taking off the spit, the making of the sauce, the dishing, the setting on the table, and saying grace; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your chaps.

Troil. At Priam’s table pensive do I sit, And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts—­ (Can she be said to come, who ne’er was absent!)

Pand. Well, she’s a most ravishing creature; and she looked yesterday most killingly; she had such a stroke with her eyes, she cut to the quick with every glance of them.

Troil. I was about to tell thee, when my heart
Was ready with a sigh to cleave in two,
Lest Hector or my father should perceive me,
I have, with mighty anguish of my soul,
Just at the birth, stifled this still-born sigh,
And forced my face into a painful smile.

Pand. I measured her with my girdle yesterday; she’s not half a yard about the waist, but so taper a shape did I never see; but when I had her in my arms, Lord, thought I,—­and by my troth I could not forbear sighing,—­If prince Troilus had her at this advantage and I were holding of the door!—­An she were a thought taller,—­but as she is, she wants not an inch of Helen neither; but there’s no more comparison between the women—­there was wit, there was a sweet tongue!  How her words melted in her mouth!  Mercury would have been glad to have such a tongue in his mouth, I warrant him.  I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did.

Troil. Oh Pandarus, when I tell thee I am mad
In Cressid’s love, thou answer’st she is fair;
Praisest her eyes, her stature, and her wit;
But praising thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay’st, in every wound her love has given me,
The sword that made it.