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SCENE I

Troy. Priam's palace.
Enter a Servant and PANDARUS.

Pan.
Friend, you! pray you, a word: do
not you follow the young Lord Paris?

Serv.
Ay, sir, when he goes before me.

Pan.
You depend upon him, I mean?

Serv.
Sir, I do depend upon the lord.

Pan.
You depend upon a noble gentleman;
I must needs praise him.

Serv.
The lord be praised!

Pan.
You know me, do you not?

Serv.
Faith, sir, superficially.

Pan.
Friend, know me better; I am the
Lord Pandarus.

Serv.
I hope I shall know your honor
better.

Pan.
I do desire it.

Serv.
You are in the state of grace.

Pan.
Grace! not so, friend; honor and
lordship are my titles. [Music within.] What
music is this?

Serv.
I do but partly know, sir; it is
music in parts.

Pan.
Know you the musicians?

Serv.
Wholly, sir.

Pan.
Who play they to?

Serv.
To the hearers, sir.

Pan.
At whose pleasure, friend?

Serv.
At mine, sir, and theirs that love
music.

Pan.
Command, I mean, friend.

Serv.
Who shall I command, sir?

Pan.
Friend, we understand not one another:
I am too courtly and thou art too
cunning. At whose request do these men
play?

Serv.
That's to't indeed, sir: marry, sir,
at the request of Paris my lord, who's there
in person; with him, the mortal Venus, the
heart-blood of beauty, love's invisible soul,--

Pan.
Who, my cousin Cressida?

Serv.
No, sir, Helen: could you not find
out that by her attributes?

Pan.
It should seem, fellow, that thou
hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I come to
speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus: I
will make a complimental assault upon him,
for my business seethes.

Serv.
Sodden business! there's a stewed
phrase indeed! Enter PARIS and HELEN, attended.

Pan.
Fair be to you, my lord, and to all
this fair company! fair desires, in all fair
measure, fairly guide them! especially to you,
fair queen! fair thoughts be your fair pillow!

Helen.
Dear lord, you are full of fair
words.

Pan.
You speak your fair pleasure, sweet
queen. Fair prince, here is good broken
music.

Par.
You have broke it, cousin: and, by
my life, you shall make it whole again; you
shall piece it out with a piece of your performance.
Nell, he is full of harmony.

Pan.
Truly, lady, no.

Helen.
O, sir,--

Pan.
Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very
rude.

Par.
Well said, my lord! well, you say so
in fits.

Pan.
I have business to my lord, dear
queen. My lord, will you vouchsafe me a
word?

Helen.
Nay, this shall not hedge us out:
we'll hear you sing, certainly.

Pan.
Well, sweet queen, you are pleasant
with me. But, marry, thus, my lord: my dear
lord and most esteemed friend, your brother
Troilus,--

Helen.
My Lord Pandarus; honey-sweet
lord,--

Pan.
Go to, sweet queen, go to:--commends
himself most affectionately to you,--

Helen.
You shall not bob us out of our
melody: if you do, our melancholy upon your
head!

Pan.
Sweet queen, sweet queen! that's a
sweet queen, i' faith.

Helen.
And to make a sweet lady sad is
a sour offence.

Pan.
Nay, that shall not serve your turn;
that shall it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care
not for such words; no, no. And, my lord,
he desires you, that if the king call for him
at supper, you will make his excuse.

Helen.
My Lord Pandarus,--

Pan.
What says my sweet queen, my very
very sweet queen?

Par.
What exploit's in hand? where sups
he to-night?

Helen.
Nay, but, my lord,--

Pan.
What says my sweet queen? My
cousin will fall out with you. You must not
know where he sups.

Par.
I'll lay my life, with my disposer
Cressida.

Pan.
No, no, no such matter; you are
wide: come, your disposer is sick.

Par.
Well, I'll make excuse.

Pan.
Ay, good my lord. Why should you
say Cressida? no, your poor disposer's sick.

Par.
I spy.

Pan.
You spy! what do you spy? Come,
give me an instrument. Now, sweet queen.

Helen.
Why, this is kindly done.

Pan.
My niece is horribly in love with a
thing you have, sweet queen.

Helen.
She shall have it, my lord, if it be
not my lord Paris.

Pan.
He! no, she'll none of him; they
two are twain.

Helen.
Falling in, after falling out, may
make them three.

Pan.
Come, come, I'll hear no more of
this; I'll sing you a song now.

Helen.
Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth,
sweet lord, thou hast a fine forehead.

Pan.
Ay, you may, you may.

Helen.
Let thy song be love: this love
will undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!

Pan.
Love! ay, that it shall, i' faith.

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

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

Love, love, nothing but love, still more!
For, O, love's bow
Shoots buck and doe:
The shaft confounds,
Not that it wounds,
130But tickles still the sore.
These lovers cry Oh! oh! they die!
Yet that which seems the wound to kill,
Doth turn oh! oh! to ha! ha! he!
So dying love lives still:
Oh! oh! a while, but ha! ha! ha!
Oh! oh! groans out for ha! ha! ha!
Heigh-ho!

Helen.
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 to-day?

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

Helen.
He hangs the lip at something:
you know all, Lord Pandarus.

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

Par.
To a hair.

Pan.
Farewell, sweet queen.

Helen.
Commend me to your niece.

Pan.
I will, sweet queen. [Exit. [A retreat sounded.

Par.
They're come from 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.

Helen.
'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.

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