All’s done, my lord
All's done, my lord.
Why stay we then?
To make a recordation to my soul
Of every syllable that here was spoke.
But if I tell how these two did co-act,
Shall I not lie in publishing a truth?
Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,
An esperance so obstinately strong.
That doth invert th' attest of eyes and ears,
As if those organs had deceptious functions,
Created only to calumniate.
Was Cressid here?
I cannot conjure, Trojan.
She was not, sure.
Most sure she was.
Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.
Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now.
Let it not be believed for womanhood!
Think, we had mothers. Do not give advantage
To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme
For depravation, to square the general sex
By Cressid's rule. Rather, think this not Cressid.
What hath she done, prince, that can soil our mothers?
Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
Will he swagger himself out on ‘s own eyes?