Troil. May I enquire where your affairs conduct you?

Thers. [Aside.] Well said again; I beg thy pardon.

Diom. Oh, it concerns you not.

Troil. Perhaps it does.

Diom. You are too inquisitive:  nor am I bound To satisfy an enemy’s request.

Troil. You have a ring upon your finger, Diomede, And given you by a lady.

Diom. If it were, ’Twas given to one that can defend her gift.

Thers. [Aside.] So, so; the boars begin to gruntle at one another:  set up your bristles now, a’both sides:  whet and foam, rogues.

Troil. You must restore it, Greek, by heaven you must;
No spoil of mine shall grace a traitor’s hand: 
And, with it, give me back the broken vows
Of my false fair; which, perjured as she is,
I never will resign, but with my soul.

Diom. Then thou, it seems, art that forsaken fool,
Who, wanting merit to preserve her heart,
Repines in vain to see it better placed;
But know, (for now I take a pride to grieve thee)
Thou art so lost a thing in her esteem,
I never heard thee named, but some scorn followed: 
Thou wert our table-talk for laughing meals;
Thy name our sportful theme for evening-walks,
And intermissive hours of cooler love,
When hand in hand we went.

Troil. Hell and furies!

Thers. [Aside.] O well stung, scorpion!  Now Menelaus’s Greek horns are out o’ doors, there’s a new cuckold starts up on the Trojan side.

Troil. Yet this was she, ye gods, that very she,
Who in my arms lay melting all the night;
Who kissed and sighed, and sighed and kissed again,
As if her soul flew upward to her lips,
To meet mine there, and panted at the passage;
Who, loth to find the breaking day, looked out,
And shrunk into my bosom, there to make
A little longer darkness.

Diom. Plagues and tortures!

Thers. Good, good, by Pluto! their fool’s mad, to lose his harlot; and our fool’s mad, that t’other fool had her first.  If I sought peace now, I could tell ’em there’s punk enough to satisfy ’em both:  whore sufficient! but let ’em worry one another, the foolish curs; they think they never can have enough of carrion.

AEn. My lords, this fury is not proper here In time of truce; if either side be injured, To-morrow’s sun will rise apace, and then—­

Troil. And then! but why should I defer till then?  My blood calls now, there is no truce for traitors; My vengeance rolls within my breast; it must, It will have vent,—­ [Draws.

Diom. Hinder us not, AEneas, My blood rides high as his; I trust thy honour, And know thou art too brave a foe to break it.—­ [Draws.

Thers. Now, moon! now shine, sweet moon! let them have just light enough to make their passes; and not enough to ward them.