Troil. Grateful!  Oh torment! now hell’s bluest flames
Receive her quick, with all her crimes upon her! 
Let her sink spotted down! let the dark host
Make room, and point, and hiss her as she goes! 
Let the most branded ghosts of all her sex
Rejoice, and cry,—­“Here comes a blacker fiend!”
Let her—­

Cres. Enough, my lord; you’ve said enough. 
This faithless, perjured, hated Cressida,
Shall be no more the subject of your curses: 
Some few hours hence, and grief had done your work;
But then your eyes had missed the satisfaction,
Which thus I give you,—­thus—­
                           [She stabs herself; they both run to her.

Diom. Help! save her, help!

Cres. Stand off, and touch me not, thou traitor Diomede;—­
But you, my only Troilus, come near: 
Trust me, the wound, which I have given this breast,
Is far less painful than the wound you gave it. 
Oh, can you yet believe, that I am true?

Troil. This were too much, even if thou hadst been false! 
But oh, thou purest, whitest innocence,—­
For such I know thee now, too late I know it!—­
May all my curses, and ten thousand more,
Heavier than they, fall back upon my head;
Pelion and Ossa, from the giants’ graves
Be torn by some avenging deity,
And hurled at me, a bolder wretch than they,
Who durst invade the skies!

Cres. Hear him not, heavens;
But hear me bless him with my latest breath! 
And, since I question not your hard decree,
That doomed my days unfortunate and few,
Add all to him you take away from me;
And I die happy, that he thinks me true. [Dies.

Troil. She’s gone for ever, and she blest me dying! 
Could she have cursed me worse! she died for me,
And, like a woman, I lament for her. 
Distraction pulls me several ways at once: 
Here pity calls me to weep out my eyes,
Despair then turns me back upon myself,
And bids me seek no more, but finish here.
                                    [Points his Sword to his Breast.
Ha, smilest thou, traitor! thou instruct’st me best,
And turn’st my just revenge to punish thee.

Diom. Thy worst, for mine has been beforehand with thee;
I triumph in thy vain credulity,
Which levels thy despairing state to mine;
But yet thy folly, to believe a foe,
Makes thine the sharper and more shameful loss.

Troil. By my few moments of remaining life,
I did not hope for any future joy;
But thou hast given me pleasure ere I die,
To punish such a villain.—­Fight apart; [To his Soldiers.
For heaven and hell have marked him out for me,
And I should grudge even his least drop of blood
To any other hand. [TROILUS and DIOMEDE fight, and both Parties
                       engage