Hector is slain.
Hector! The gods forbid!
Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl.
Let me read.
Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you
Which better fits a lion than a man.
This she? No, this is Diomed’s Cressida.
If beauty have a soul, this is not she;
If souls guide vows,
All’s done, my lord.
Why stay we then?
My lord, will you be true?
Who, I? Alas, it is my vice,
I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels,
To give thee nightly visitation.
But yet, be true.
A woeful Cressid ’mongst the merry Greeks.
When shall we see again?
And is it true that I must go from Troy?
A hateful truth.
What offends you, lady?
Sir, mine own company.
You cannot shun yourself.
Boldness comes to me now and brings me heart.
Prince Troilus, I have loved you night and day
For many weary months.
Will you walk in, my lord?
O Cressid, how often have I wished me thus!
Have you seen my cousin?
No, Pandarus. I stalk about her door
Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks
Staying for waftage.
Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost
What’s aught but as ’tis valued?
Fie, fie, my brother,
Weigh you the worth and honor of a king
So great as our dread father’s in a scale
Of common ounces?
O, Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus:
When I do tell thee there my hopes lie drowned,
Reply not in how many fathoms deep
They lie indrenched.
Well, I have told you enough of this. For my
part, I’ll not meddle nor make no farther.