Pand. Walk here a moment more:  I’ll bring her strait.

Troil. I fear she will not come; most sure she will not.

Pand. How, not come, and I her uncle! why, I tell you, prince, she twitters at you.  Ah poor sweet rogue! ah, little rogue, now does she think, and think, and think again of what must be betwixt you two.  Oh sweet,—­oh sweet—­O—­what, not come, and I her uncle?

Troil. Still thou flatter’st me; but pr’ythee flatter still; for I would hope; I would not wake out of my pleasing dream.  Oh hope, how sweet thou art! but to hope always, and have no effect of what we hope!

Pand. Oh faint heart, faint heart! well, there’s much good matter in these old proverbs!  No, she’ll not come, I warrant her; she has no blood of mine in her, not so much as will fill a flea.  But if she does not come, and come, and come with a swing into your arms—­I say no more, but she has renounced all grace, and there’s an end.

Troil. I will believe thee:  go then, but be sure.

Pand. No, you would not have me go; you are indifferent—­shall I go, say you? speak the word then:—­yet I care not:  you may stand in your own light, and lose a sweet young lady’s heart—­well, I shall not go then.

Troil. Fly, fly, thou torturest me.

Pand. Do I so, do I so? do I torture you indeed? well, I will go.

Troil. But yet thou dost not go.

Pand. I go immediately, directly, in a twinkling, with a thought:  yet you think a man never does enough for you; I have been labouring in your business like any moyle.  I was with prince Paris this morning, to make your excuse at night for not supping at court; and I found him—­faith, how do you think I found him? it does my heart good to think how I found him:  yet you think a man never does enough for you.

Troil. Will you go then?—­What’s this to Cressida?

Pand. Why, you will not hear a man! what’s this to Cressida?  Why, I found him a-bed, a-bed with Helena, by my troth:  ’Tis a sweet queen, a sweet queen; a very sweet queen,—­but she’s nothing to my cousin Cressida; she’s a blowse, a gipsy, a tawny moor to my cousin Cressida; and she lay with one white arm underneath the whoreson’s neck:  Oh such a white, lilly-white, round, plump arm as it was—­and you must know it was stripped up to the elbows; and she did so kiss him, and so huggle him!—­as who should say—­

Troil. But still thou stayest:—­what’s this to Cressida?

Pand. Why, I made your excuse to your brother Paris; that I think’s to Cressida:—­but such an arm, such a hand, such taper fingers! t’other hand was under the bed-cloaths; that I saw not, I confess; that hand I saw not.

Troil. Again thou torturest me.