Cres. Hector’s a gallant warrior.

  Enter PANDARUS.

Pand. What’s that, what’s that?

Cres. Good-morrow, uncle Pandarus.

Pand. Good-morrow, cousin Cressida.  When were you at court?

Cres. This morning, uncle.

Pand. What were you a talking, when I came?  Was Hector armed, and gone ere ye came?  Hector was stirring early.

Cres. That I was talking of, and of his anger.

Pand. Was he angry, say you? true, he was so, and I know the cause.  He was struck down yesterday in the battle, but he’ll lay about him; he’ll cry quittance with them to-day.  I’ll answer for him.  And there’s Troilus will not come far behind him:  let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell them that too.

Cres. What, was he struck down too?

Pand. Who, Troilus?  Troilus is the better man of the two.

Cres. Oh Jupiter! there’s no comparison!  Troilus the better man.

Pand. What, no comparison between Hector and Troilus? do you know a man if you see him?

Cres. No:  for he may look like a man, and not be one.

Pand. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus.

Cres. That’s what I say; for I am sure he is not Hector.

Pand. No, nor Hector is not Troilus:  make your best of that, niece!

Cres. ’Tis true, for each of them is himself.

Pand. Himself! alas, poor Troilus!  I would he were himself:  well, the gods are all-sufficient, and time must mend or end.  I would he were himself, and would I were a lady for his sake.  I would not answer for my maidenhead.—­No, Hector is not a better man than Troilus.

Cres. Excuse me.

Pand. Pardon me; Troilus is in the bud, ’tis early day with him; you shall tell me another tale when Troilus is come to bearing; and yet he will not bear neither, in some sense.  No, Hector shall never have his virtues.

Cres. No matter.

Pand. Nor his beauty, nor his fashion, nor his wit; he shall have nothing of him.

Cres. They would not become him, his own are better.

Pand. How, his own better! you have no judgment, niece; Helen herself swore, the other day, that Troilus, for a manly brown complexion,—­for so it is, I must confess—­not brown neither.

Cres. No, but very brown.

Pand. Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.  Come, I swear to you, I think Helen loves him better than Paris:  nay, I’m sure she does.  She comes me to him the other day, into the bow-window,—­and you know Troilus has not above three or four hairs on his chin,—­

Cres. That’s but a bare commendation.

Pand. But to prove to you that Helen loves him, she comes, and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin.