Troil. [Aside.] Hector said true:  I find, I find it now!

Pand. And, last of all, comes me Diomede, so demurely:  that’s a notable sly rogue, I warrant him! mercy upon us, how he laid her on upon the lips! for, as I told you, she’s most mightily made on among the Greeks.  What, cheer up, I say, man! she has every one’s good word.  I think, in my conscience, she was born with a caul upon her head.

Troil. [Aside.] Hell, death, confusion, how he tortures me!

Pand. And that rogue-priest, my brother, is so courted and treated for her sake:  the young sparks do so pull him about, and haul him by the cassock:  nothing but invitations to his tent, and his tent, and his tent.  Nay, and one of ’em was so bold, as to ask him, if she were a virgin; and with that, the rogue, my brother, takes me up a little god in his hand, and kisses it, and swears devoutly that she was; then was I ready to burst my sides with laughing, to think what had passed betwixt you two.

Troil. O I can bear no more! she’s falsehood all: 
False by both kinds; for with her mother’s milk
She sucked the infusion of her father’s soul. 
She only wants an opportunity;
Her soul’s a whore already.

Pand. What, would you make a monopoly of a woman’s lips? a little consolation, or so, might be allowed, one would think, in a lover’s absence.

Troil. Hence from my sight! 
Let ignominy brand thy hated name;
Let modest matrons at thy mention start;
And blushing virgins, when they read our annals,
Skip o’er the guilty page that holds thy legend,
And blots the noble work.

Pand. O world, world:  thou art an ungrateful patch of earth!  Thus the poor agent is despised! he labours painfully in his calling, and trudges between parties:  but when their turns are served, come out’s too good for him.  I am mighty melancholy.  I’ll e’en go home, and shut up my doors, and die o’ the sullens, like an old bird in a cage!
          
                                           [Exit PANDARUS.

Enter DIOMEDE and THERSITES.

Thers. [Aside.] There, there he is; now let it work:  now play thy part, jealousy, and twinge ’em:  put ’em between thy mill-stones, and grind the rogues together.

Diom. My lord, I am by Ajax sent to inform you, This hour must end the truce.

AEn. to Troil. Contain yourself:  Think where we are.

Diom. Your stay will be unsafe.

Troil. It may, for those I hate.

Thers. [Aside.] Well said, Trojan:  there’s the first hit.

Diom. Beseech you, sir, make haste; my own affairs call me another way.

Thers. [Aside.] What affairs? what affairs? demand that, dolt-head! the rogue will lose a quarrel, for want of wit to ask that question.