Troil. A hateful truth.

Cres. What, and from Troilus too?

Troil. From Troy and Troilus,—­and suddenly; So suddenly, ’tis counted out by minutes.

Cres. What, not an hour allowed for taking leave?

Troil. Even that’s bereft us too:  Our envious fates
Jostle betwixt, and part the dear adieus
Of meeting lips, clasped hands, and locked embraces.

AEneas. [Within.] My lord, is the lady ready yet?

Troil. Hark, you are called!—­Some say, the genius so Cries,—­Come, to him who instantly must die.

Pand. Where are my tears? some rain to lay this wind, Or my heart will be blown up by the roots!

Troil. Hear me, my love! be thou but true, like me.

Cres. I true! how now, what wicked thought is this?

Troil. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,
For it is parting from us. 
I spoke not, be thou true, as fearing thee;
But be thou true, I said, to introduce
My following protestation,—­be thou true,
And I will see thee.

Cres. You’ll be exposed to dangers.

Troil. I care not; but be true.

Cres. Be true, again?

Troil. Hear why I speak it, love. 
The Grecian youths are full of Grecian arts: 
Alas! a kind of holy jealousy,
Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin,
Makes me afraid how far you may be tempted.

Cres. O heavens, you love me not!

Troil. Die I a villain then!  In this I do not call your faith in question, But my own merit.

Cres. Fear not; I’ll be true.

Troil. Then, fate, thy worst! for I will see thee, love; Not all the Grecian host shall keep me out, Nor Troy, though walled with fire, should hold me in.

AEneas. [Within.] My lord, my lord Troilus!  I must call you.

Pand. A mischief call him! nothing but screech-owls? do, do, call again; you had best part them now in the sweetness of their love!—­I’ll be hanged if this AEneas be the son of Venus, for all his bragging.  Honest Venus was a punk; would she have parted lovers? no, he has not a drop of Venus’ blood in him—­honest Venus was a punk.

Troil. [To Pand.] Pr’ythee, go out, and gain one minute more.

Pand. Marry and I will:  follow you your business; lose no time, ’tis very precious; go, bill again:  I’ll tell the rogue his own, I warrant him. [Exit PANDARUS.

Cres. What have we gained by this one minute more?

Troil. Only to wish another, and another, A longer struggling with the pangs of death.

Cres. O, those, who do not know what parting is, Can never learn to die!

Troil. When I but think this sight may be our last, If Jove could set me in the place of Atlas, And lay the weight of heaven and gods upon me, He could not press me more.