Part 2

Pan. I doe not care whether you doe or no. Shee’s a Foole to ſtay behinde her Father: Let her to the Greeks, and ſo Ile tell her the next time I ſee her: for my part, Ile meddle nor make no more i’ th’ matter.

Troy. Pandarus?

Pan. Not I.

Troy. Sweete Pandarus.

Pan. Pray you ſpeak no more to me, I will leaue all as I found it, and there an end.

Exit Pand.

Sound Alarum

Tro. Peace you vngracious Clamors, peace rude ſounds, Fooles on both ſides, Helen muſt needs be faire, When with your bloud you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight vpon this Argument: It is too staru’d a ſubiect for my Sword, But Pandarus. O Gods! How do you plague me? I cannot come to Creſſid but by Pandar, And he’s as teachy to be woo’d to woe, As ſhe is ſtubborne, chast againſt all ſuite. Tell me Apollo for thy Daphnes Loue What Creſſid is, what Pandar, and what we: Her bed is India, there ſhe lies, a Pearle, Between our Ilium, and where ſhee recides Let it be cald the wild and wandring flood, Our ſelf the Merchant, and this ſayling Pandar, Our doubtfull hope, our conuoy and our Barke.

Alarum. Enter Æneas.

Æne. How now Prince Troylus? Wherefore not a field?

Troy. Becauſe not there; this womans anſwer ſorts. For womaniſh it is to be from thence: What newes Æneas from the field to day?

Æne. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.

Troy. By whom Æneas?

Æne. Troylus by Menelaus.

Troy. Let Paris bleed, ’tis but a ſcar to ſcorne, Paris is gor’d with Menelaus horne.

Alarum,

Æne. Harke what good ſport is out of Towne to day.

Troy. Better at home, if would I might were may: But to the ſport abroad, are you bound thither?

Æne. In all ſwift haſte.

Troy. Come, goe wee then togither.

Exeunt.

Enter Creſſid and her man.

Cre. Who were thoſe went by?

Man. Queen Hecuba, and Hellen.

Cre. And whether go they?

Man. Vp to the Eaſterne Tower, Whoſe height commands as ſubiect all the vaile, To ſee the battell: Hector whoſe pacience, Is as a Vertue fixt, to day was mou’d. He chides Andromache and ſtrooke his Armorer, And like as there were husbandry in Warre Before the Sunne rose, hee was harneſt lyte, And to the field goe’s he; where euery flower Did as a Prophet weepe what it foreſaw In Hectors wrath.

Cre. What was his cauſe of anger?

Man. The noiſe goe’s this; There is among the Greekes, A Lord of Troian blood, Nephew to Hector, They call him Aiax.