Troilus and Cressida

Pandarus
Be moderate, be moderate.
Cressida
Why tell you me of moderation?
The grief is fine, full, perfect that I taste,
And violenteth in a sense as strong
As that which causeth it. How can I moderate it?
If I could temporize with my affection
Or brew it to a weak and colder palate,
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Cressida
And is it true that I must go from Troy?
Troilus
A hateful truth.
Cressida
What, and from Troilus too?
Troilus
From Troy and Troilus.
Cressida
Is ‘t possible?

We two, that with so many thousand sighs
Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves
With the rude brevity and discharge of one.
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Cressida
A woeful Cressid ‘mongst the merry Greeks.
When shall we see again?
Troilus
Hear me, my  love. Be thou but true of heart—
Cressida
I true? How now, what wicked deem is this?
Troilus
Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,
For it is parting from us.
I speak not “Be thou true”
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Troilus
I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels,
To give thee nightly visitation.
But yet, be true.
Cressida
O heavens! “Be true” again?
Troilus
Hear why I speak it, love.
The Grecian youths are full of quality,
Their loving well composed, with gift of nature flowing,
And swelling o’er with arts and exercise.
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Cressida
My lord, will you be true?
Troilus
Who, I? Alas, it is my vice, my fault.
Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion,
I with great truth catch mere simplicity.
Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns,
With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare.
Fear not my truth.
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Nestor
A woman of quick sense.
Ulysses
Fie, fie upon her!
There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip;
Nay, her foot speaks. Her wanton spirits look out
At every joint and motive of her body.
O, these encounterers, so glib of tongue,
That give accosting welcome ere it comes
And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts
To every tickling reader!
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Agamemnon
What Trojan is that same that looks so heavy?
Ulysses
The youngest son of Priam, a true knight,
Not yet mature, yet matchless firm of word,
Speaking in deeds, and deedless in his tongue,
Not soon provoked, nor being provoked soon calmed,
His heart and hand both open and both free.
For what he has,
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Ajax
I am not warm yet. Let us fight again.
Diomedes
As Hector pleases.
Hector
Why, then, will I no more.—
Thou art, great lord, my father’s sister’s son,
A cousin-german to great Priam’s seed.
The obligation of our blood forbids
A gory emulation ‘twixt us twain.
Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so
That thou couldst say “This hand is Grecian all,
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Achilles
How now, thou core of envy?
Thou crusty botch of nature, what’s the news?
Thersites
Why, thou picture of what thou seemest and
idol of idiot-worshippers, here’s a letter for thee.
Achilles
From whence, fragment?
Thersites
Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.
 Achilles takes the letter and moves aside to read it.
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Diomedes
What, shall I come? The hour?
Cressida
Ay, come.—O Jove!—Do, come.—I shall be plagued.
Diomedes
Farewell, till then.
Cressida
Good night. I prithee, come.—
He exits.
Troilus, farewell. One eye yet looks on thee,
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah,
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