Troilus and Cressida
Act V, Scene 10
Another part of the plains.
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Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor, Deiphobus.
Aeneas
1
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Stand ho! Yet are we masters of the field.
Troilus
2 - 3
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Never go home, here starve we out the night—
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Hector is slain.
All Aeneas, Paris, Antenor, and Deiphobus
4
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Hector! The gods forbid!
Troilus
5 - 10
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He’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail,
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In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field.
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Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed!
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Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy!
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I say at once, let your brief plagues be mercy,
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And linger not our sure destructions on!
Aeneas
11
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My lord, you do discomfort all the host.
Troilus
12 - 32
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You understand me not that tell me so.
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I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death,
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But dare all imminence that gods and men
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Address their dangers in. Hector is gone.
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Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?
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Let him that will a screech owl aye be call’d
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Go in to Troy and say there, “Hector’s dead!”
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There is a word will Priam turn to stone,
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Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,
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Cold statues of the youth, and in a word,
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Scare Troy out of itself. But march away.
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Hector is dead; there is no more to say.
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Stay yet. You vile abominable tents,
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Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,
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Let Titan rise as early as he dare,
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I’ll through and through you! And, thou great-siz’d coward,
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No space of earth shall sunder our two hates.
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I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
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That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts.
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Strike a free march. To Troy with comfort go;
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Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
Pandarus
33
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But hear you, hear you!
Troilus
34 - 36
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Hence, broker, lackey!
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Strikes him.
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Ignominy, shame
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Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!
Pandarus
37 - 57
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A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world, world,
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world! Thus is the poor agent despis’d! O traders and bawds,
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how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why
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should our endeavor be so lov’d and the performance so
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loath’d? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me
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see:
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Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing,
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Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;
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And being once subdu’d in armed tail,
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Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.
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Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths:
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As many as be here of Pandar’s hall,
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Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall;
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Or if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,
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Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.
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Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,
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Some two months hence my will shall here be made.
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It should be now, but that my fear is this,
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Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.
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Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases,
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And at that time bequeath you my diseases.
