Troil. O Cressida, how often have I wished me here!

Cres. Wished, my lord!—­The gods grant!—­O, my lord—­

Troil. What should they grant? what makes this pretty interruption in thy words?

Cres. I speak I know not what!

Troil. Speak ever so; and if I answer you
I know not what—­it shows the more of love. 
Love is a child that talks in broken language,
Yet then he speaks most plain.

Cres. I find it true, that to be wise, and love, Are inconsistent things.

Pand. What, blushing still! have you not done talking yet?

Cres. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you.

Pand. I thank you for that; if my lord get a boy of you, you’ll give him me.  Be true to my lord; if he flinch, I’ll be hanged for him.—­Now am I in my kingdom! [Aside.

Troil. You know your pledges now; your uncle’s word, and my firm faith.

Pand. Nay, I’ll give my word for her too:  Our kindred are constant; they are burs, I can assure you; they’ll stick where they are thrown.

Cres. Boldness comes to me now, and I can speak:  Prince Troilus, I have loved you long.

Troil. Why was my Cressida then so hard to win?

Cres. Hard to seem won; but I was won, my lord—­
What have I blabbed? who will be true to us,
When we are so unfaithful to ourselves! 
O bid me hold my tongue; for, in this rapture,
Sure I shall speak what I should soon repent. 
But stop my mouth.

Troil. A sweet command, and willingly obeyed. [Kisses.

Pand. Pretty, i’faith!

Cres. My lord, I do beseech you pardon me;
’Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss. 
I am ashamed;—­O heavens, what have I done! 
For this time let me take my leave, my lord.

Pand. Leave! an you take leave till to-morrow morning, call me Cut.

Cres. Pray, let me go.

Troil. Why, what offends you, madam?

Cres. My own company.

Troil. You cannot shun yourself.

Cres. Let me go try; I have a kind of self resides in you.

Troil. Oh that I thought truth could be in a woman,
(As if it can, I will presume in you,)
That my integrity and faith might meet
The same return from her, who has my heart,
How should I be exalted! but, alas,
I am more plain than dull simplicity,
And artless as the infancy of truth!

Cres. In that I must not yield to you, my lord.

Troil. All constant lovers shall, in future ages,
Approve their truth by Troilus.  When their verse
Wants similes,—­as turtles to their mates,
Or true as flowing tides are to the moon,
Earth to the centre, iron to adamant,—­
At last, when truth is tired with repetition,
As true as Troilus, shall crown up the verse,
And sanctify the numbers.