Part 47

A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks! When shall we see again?

TROILUS.

Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart--

CRESSIDA.

I true! How now? what wicked deem is this?

TROILUS.

Nay, we must use expostulation kindly, For it is parting from us; I speak not, be thou true, as fearing thee; For I will throw my glove to Death himself That there's no maculation in thy heart: But be thou true, say I, to fashion in My sequent protestation. Be thou true, And I will see thee.

CRESSIDA.

O heavens! be true again-- O heavens! you love me not.

TROILUS.

Die I a villain, then! In this I do not call your faith in question, So mainly as my merit-- --But be not tempted.

CRESSIDA.

Do you think I will?

* * * * *

In the eagerness of Imogen to meet her husband there is all a wife's fondness, mixed up with the breathless hurry arising from a sudden and joyful surprise; but nothing of the picturesque eloquence, the ardent, exuberant, Italian imagination of Juliet, who, to gratify her impatience, would have her heralds thoughts;--press into her service the nimble pinioned doves, and wind-swift Cupids,--change the course of nature, and lash the steeds of Phoebus to the west. Imogen only thinks "one score of miles, 'twixt sun and sun," slow travelling for a lover, and wishes for a horse with wings--

O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio, (Who long'st like me, to see thy lord--who long'st-- O let me bate, but not like me--yet long'st, But in a fainter kind--O not like me, For mine's beyond beyond,) say, and speak thick-- (Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To the smothering of the sense)--how far is it To this same blessed Milford? And by the way, Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as To inherit such a haven. But, first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time, from our hence going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born, or e'er begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Pr'ythee speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour?

PISANIO.

One score, 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you; and too much too.

IMOGEN.

Why, one that rode to his execution, man, Could never go so slow!

There are two or three other passages bearing on the conjugal tenderness of Imogen, which must be noticed for the extreme intensity of the feeling, and the unadorned elegance of the expression.

I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' the haven And question'dst every sail: if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee?

PISANIO.

'Twas, His queen! his queen!

IMOGEN.

Then wav'd his hankerchief?

PISANIO.

And kiss'd it, madam.