Part 20

Par. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.

Pan. In good troth, it begins so. [Sings]

Love, love, nothing but love, still love, still more! For, oh, love’s bow Shoots buck and doe; The shaft confounds Not that it wounds, But tickles still the sore. These lovers cry, O ho, they die! Yet that which seems the wound to kill Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he! So dying love lives still. O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha! O ho! groans out for ha! ha! ha!-hey ho!

Hel. In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of the nose.

Par. He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.

Pan. Is this the generation of love: hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s a-field today?

Par. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy. I would fain have arm’d to-day, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my brother Troylus went not?

Hel. He hangs the lip at something. You know all, Lord Pandarus.

Pan. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they spend to-day. You’ll remember your brother’s excuse?

Par. To a hair.

Pan. Farewell, sweet queen.

Hel. Commend me to your niece.

Pan. I will, sweet queen. Exit. Sound a retreat

Par. They’re come from the field. Let us to Priam’s hall To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn buckles, With these your white enchanting fingers touch’d, Shall more obey than to the edge of steel Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more Than all the island kings-disarm great Hector.

Hel. ’Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris; Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty Gives us more palm in beauty than we have, Yea, overshines ourself.

Par. Sweet, above thought I love thee. Exeunt

Enter Pandarus and Boy, meeting

Pan. How now! Where’s thy master? At my cousin Creſſida’s?

Boy. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither.

Enter Troylus

Pan. O, here he comes. How now, how now!

Troy. Sirrah, walk off. Exit Boy

Pan. Have you seen my cousin?

Troy. No, Pandarus. I stalk about her door Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon, And give me swift transportance to these fields Where I may wallow in the lily beds Propos’d for the deserver! O gentle Pandar, From Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted wings, And fly with me to Creſſid!

Pan. Walk here i’ th’ orchard, I’ll bring her straight. Exit

Troy. I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. Th’ imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense; what will it be When that the wat’ry palate tastes indeed Love’s thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me; Swooning destruction; or some joy too fine, Too subtle-potent, tun’d too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers. I fear it much; and I do fear besides That I shall lose distinction in my joys; As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps The enemy flying.

Re-enter Pandarus

Pan. She’s making her ready, she’ll come straight; you must be witty now. She does so blush, and fetches her wind so short, as if she were fray’d with a sprite. I’ll fetch her. It is the prettiest villain; she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta’en sparrow. Exit