Andr. Your enemies too well your courage know,
And heaven abhors the forfeit of rash vows,
Like spotted livers in a sacrifice. 
I cannot, O I dare not let you go;
For, when you leave me, my presaging mind
Says, I shall never, never see you more.

Hect. Thou excellently good, but oh too soft,
Let me not ’scape the danger of this day;
But I have struggling in my manly soul,
To see those modest tears, ashamed to fall,
And witness any part of woman in thee! 
And now I fear, lest thou shouldst think it fear,
If, thus dissuaded, I refuse to fight,
And stay inglorious in thy arms at home.

Andr. Oh, could I have that thought, I should not love thee;
Thy soul is proof to all things but to kindness;
And therefore ’twas that I forbore to tell thee,
How mad Cassandra, full of prophecy,
Ran round the streets, and, like a Bacchanal,
Cried,—­Hold him, Priam, ’tis an ominous day;
Let him not go, for Hector is no more.

Hect. Our life is short, but to extend that span
To vast eternity, is virtue’s work;
Therefore to thee, and not to fear of fate,
Which once must come to all, give I this day. 
But see thou move no more the like request;
For rest assured, that, to regain this hour,
To-morrow will I tempt a double danger. 
Mean time, let destiny attend thy leisure;
I reckon this one day a blank of life.

  Enter TROILUS.

Troil. Where are you, brother? now, in honour’s name,
What do you mean to be thus long unarmed? 
The embattled soldiers throng about the gates;
The matrons to the turrets’ tops ascend,
Holding their helpless children in their arms,
To make you early known to their young eyes,
And Hector is the universal shout.

Hect. Bid all unarm; I will not fight to-day.

Troil. Employ some coward to bear back this news,
And let the children hoot him for his pains. 
By all the gods, and by my just revenge,
This sun shall shine the last for them or us;
These noisy streets, or yonder echoing plains,
Shall be to-morrow silent as the grave.

Andr. O brother, do not urge a brother’s fate, But, let this wreck of heaven and earth roll o’er, And, when the storm is past, put out to sea.

Troil. O now I know from whence his change proceeds;
Some frantic augur has observed the skies;
Some victim wants a heart, or crow flies wrong. 
By heaven, ’twas never well, since saucy priests
Grew to be masters of the listening herd,
And into mitres cleft the regal crown;
Then, as the earth were scanty for their power,
They drew the pomp of heaven to wait on them. 
Shall I go publish, Hector dares not fight,
Because a madman dreamt he talked with Jove? 
What could the god see in a brain-sick priest,
That he should sooner talk to him than me?