by John Dryden
Diom. Whose was’t?
Cres. By all Diana’s waiting train of stars,
And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
Diom. Why then thou lov’st him still: farewell for ever:
Thou never shalt mock Diomede again.
Cres. You shall not go: one cannot speak a word,
But straight it starts you.
Diom. I do not like this fooling.
Thers. Nor I, by Pluto: but that, which likes not you, pleases me best.
Diom. I shall expect your promise.
Cres. I’ll perform it.
Not a word more, good night — I hope for ever:
Thus to deceive deceivers is no fraud.[Aside.
[Exeunt Diomede and Cressida severally.
Ulys. All’s done, my lord.
Troil Is it?
Ulys. Pray let us go.
Troil. Was Cressida here?
Ulys. I cannot conjure, Trojan.
Troil. She was not, sure! she was not;
Let it not be believed, for womanhood:
Think we had mothers, do not give advantage
To biting satire, apt without a theme
For defamation, to square all the sex
By Cressid’s rule; rather think this not Cressida.
Thers. Will he swagger himself out on’s own eyes?
Troil. This she! no, this was Diomede’s Cressida.
If beauty have a soul, this is not she: —
I cannot speak for rage; — that ring was mine: —
By heaven I gave it, in that point of time,
When both our joys were fullest! — If he keeps it,
Let dogs eat Troilus.
Thers. He’ll tickle it for his concupy: this will be sport to see! Patroclus will give me any thing for the intelligence of this whore; a parrot will not do more for an almond, than he will for a commodious drab: — I would I could meet with this rogue Diomede too: I would croak like a raven to him; I would bode: it shall go hard but I’ll find him out.
[Exit Thersites.
Enter Æneas.
Æn. I have been seeking you this hour, my lord:
Hector by this is arming him in Troy.
Ulys. Commend me, gallant Troilus, to your brother:
Tell him, I hope he shall not need to arm;
The fair Polyxena has, by a letter,
Disarmed our great Achilles of his rage.
Troil. This I shall say to Hector.
Ulys. So I hope.
Pray heaven Thersites have informed me true! — [Aside.
Troil. Good night, my lord; accept distracted thanks! [Exit Ulysses.
Enter Pandarus.
Pand. Hear ye, my lord, hear ye; I have been seeing yon poor girl. There have been old doings there, i’faith.
Troil. [Aside.] Hold yet, my spirits: let him pour it in:
The poison’s kind: the more I drink of it,
The sooner ‘twill dispatch me.
Æn. to Pand. Peace, thou babbler!
Pand. She has been mightily made on by the Greeks: she takes most wonderfully among ‘em. Achilles kissed her, and Patroclus kissed her: nay, and old Nestor put aside his grey beard, and brushed her with his whiskers. Then comes me Agamemnon with his general’s staff, diving with a low bow even to the ground, and rising again, just at her lips: and after him came Ulysses, and Ajax, and Menelaus: and they so pelted her, i’faith, pitter patter, pitter patter, as thick as hail-stones. And after that, a whole rout of ‘em: never was a woman in Phrygia better kissed.
Troil. [Aside.] Hector said true: I find, I find it now!
Pand. And, last of all, comes me Diomede, so demurely: that’s a notable sly rogue, I warrant him! mercy upon us, how he laid her on upon the lips! for, as I told you, she’s most mightily made on among the Greeks. What, cheer up, I say, man! she has every one’s good word. I think, in my conscience, she was born with a caul upon her head.
Troil. [Aside.] Hell, death, confusion, how he tortures me!
Pand. And that rogue-priest, my brother, is so courted and treated for her sake: the young sparks do so pull him about, and haul him by the cassock: nothing but invitations to his tent, and his tent, and his tent. Nay, and one of ‘em was so bold, as to ask him, if she were a virgin; and with that, the rogue, my brother, takes me up a little god in his hand, and kisses it, and swears devoutly that she was; then was I ready to burst my sides with laughing, to think what had passed betwixt you two.
Troil. O I can bear no more! she’s falsehood all:
False by both kinds; for with her mother’s milk
She sucked the infusion of her father’s soul.
She only wants an opportunity;
Her soul’s a whore already.
Pand. What, would you make a monopoly of a woman’s lips? a little consolation, or so, might be allowed, one would think, in a lover’s absence.
Troil. Hence from my sight!
Let ignominy brand thy hated name;
Let modest matrons at thy mention start;
And blushing virgins, when they read our annals,
Skip o’er the guilty page that holds thy legend,
And blots the noble work.
Pand. O world, world: thou art an ungrateful patch of earth! Thus the poor agent is despised! he labours painfully in his calling, and trudges between parties: but when their turns are served, come out’s too good for him. I am mighty melancholy. I’ll e’en go home, and shut up my doors, and die o’ the sullens, like an old bird in a cage!
[Exit Pandarus.
Enter Diomede and Thersites.
Thers. [Aside.] There, there he is; now let it work: now play thy part, jealousy, and twinge ‘em: put ‘em between thy mill-stones, and grind the rogues together.
Diom. My lord, I am by Ajax sent to inform you,
This hour must end the truce.
Æn. to Troil. Contain yourself:
Think where we are.
Diom. Your stay will be unsafe.
Troil. It may, for those I hate.
Thers. [Aside.] Well said, Trojan: there’s the first hit.
Diom. Beseech you, sir, make haste; my own affairs call me another way.
Thers. [Aside.] What affairs? what affairs? demand that, dolt-head! the rogue will lose a quarrel, for want of wit to ask that question.
Troil. May I enquire where your affairs conduct you?
Thers. [Aside.] Well said again; I beg thy pardon.
Diom. Oh, it concerns you not.
Troil. Perhaps it does.
Diom. You are too inquisitive: nor am I bound
To satisfy an enemy’s request.
Troil. You have a ring upon your finger, Diomede,
And given you by a lady.
Diom. If it were,
’Twas given to one that can defend her gift.
Thers. [Aside.] So, so; the boars begin to gruntle at one another: set up your bristles now, a’both sides: whet and foam, rogues.
Troil. You must restore it, Greek, by heaven you must;
No spoil of mine shall grace a traitor’s hand:
And, with it, give me back the broken vows
Of my false fair; which, perjured as she is,
I never will resign, but with my soul.
Diom. Then thou, it seems, art that forsaken fool,
Who, wanting merit to preserve her heart,
Repines in vain to see it better placed;
But know, (for now I take a pride to grieve thee)
Thou art so lost a thing in her esteem,
I never heard thee named, but some scorn followed:
Thou wert our table-talk for laughing meals;
Thy name our sportful theme for evening-walks,
And intermissive hours of cooler love,
When hand in hand we went.
Troil. Hell and furies!
Thers. [Aside.] O well stung, scorpion! 343 Now Menelaus’s Greek horns are out o’ doors, there’s a new cuckold starts up on the Trojan side.
Troil. Ye
t this was she, ye gods, that very she,
Who in my arms lay melting all the night;
Who kissed and sighed, and sighed and kissed again,
As if her soul flew upward to her lips,
To meet mine there, and panted at the passage;
Who, loth to find the breaking day, looked out,
And shrunk into my bosom, there to make
A little longer darkness.
Diom. Plagues and tortures!
Thers. Good, good, by Pluto! their fool’s mad, to lose his harlot; and our fool’s mad, that t’other fool had her first. If I sought peace now, I could tell ‘em there’s punk enough to satisfy ‘em both: whore sufficient! but let ‘em worry one another, the foolish curs; they think they never can have enough of carrion.
Æn. My lords, this fury is not proper here
In time of truce; if either side be injured,
To-morrow’s sun will rise apace, and then —
Troil. And then! but why should I defer till then?
My blood calls now, there is no truce for traitors;
My vengeance rolls within my breast; it must,
It will have vent, — [Draws.
Diom. Hinder us not, Æneas,
My blood rides high as his; I trust thy honour,
And know thou art too brave a foe to break it. — [Draws.
Thers. Now, moon! now shine, sweet moon! let them have just light enough to make their passes; and not enough to ward them.
Æn. [Drawing too.]
By heaven, he comes on this, who strikes the first.
You both are mad; is this like gallant men,
To fight at midnight; at the murderer’s hour;
When only guilt and rapine draw a sword?
Let night enjoy her dues of soft repose;
But let the sun behold the brave man’s courage.
And this I dare engage for Diomede, —
For though I am, — he shall not hide his head,
But meet you in the very face of danger.
Diom. [Putting up.]
Be’t so; and were it on some precipice,
High as Olympus, and a sea beneath,
Call when thou dar’st, just on the sharpest point
I’ll meet, and tumble with thee to destruction.
Troil. A gnawing conscience haunts not guilty men,
As I’ll haunt thee, to summon thee to this;
Nay, shouldst thou take the Stygian lake for refuge,
I’ll plunge in after, through the boiling flames,
To push thee hissing down the vast abyss.
Diom. Where shall we meet?
Troil. Before the tent of Calchas.
Thither, through all your troops, I’ll fight my way;
And in the sight of perjured Cressida,
Give death to her through thee.
Diom. ’Tis largely promised;
But I disdain to answer with a boast.
Be sure thou shalt be met.
Troil. And thou be found. [Exeunt Troilus and Æneas one way; Diomede the other.
Thers. Now the furies take Æneas, for letting them sleep upon their quarrel; who knows but rest may cool their brains, and make them rise maukish to mischief upon consideration? May each of them dream he sees his cockatrice in t’other’s arms; and be stabbing one another in their sleep, to remember them of their business when they wake: let them be punctual to the point of honour; and, if it were possible, let both be first at the place of execution; 345 let neither of them have cogitation enough, to consider ’tis a whore they fight for; and let them value their lives at as little as they are worth: and lastly, let no succeeding fools take warning by them; but, in imitation of them, when a strumpet is in question,
Let them beneath their feet all reason trample,
And think it great to perish by example.[Exit.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Hector, Trojans, Andromache.
Hect. The blue mists rise from off the nether grounds,
And the sun mounts apace. To arms, to arms!
I am resolved to put to the utmost proof
The fate of Troy this day.
Andr. [Aside.] Oh wretched woman, oh!
Hect. Methought I heard you sigh, Andromache.
Andr. Did you, my lord?
Hect. Did you, my lord? you answer indirectly;
Just when I said, that I would put our fate
Upon the extremest proof, you fetched a groan;
And, as you checked yourself for what you did,
You stifled it and stopt. Come, you are sad.
Andr. The gods forbid!
Hect. What should the gods forbid?
Andr. That I should give you cause of just offence.
Hect. You say well; but you look not chearfully.
I mean this day to waste the stock of war,
And lay it prodigally out in blows.
Come, gird my sword, and smile upon me, love;
Like victory, come flying to my arms,
And give me earnest of desired success.
Andr. The gods protect you, and restore you to me!
Hect. What, grown a coward! Thou wert used, Andromache,
To give my courage courage; thou would’st cry, —
Go Hector, day grows old, and part of fame
Is ravished from thee by thy slothful stay.
Andr. [Aside.] What shall I do to seem the same I was? —
Come, let me gird thy fortune to thy side,
And conquest sit as close and sure as this. [She goes to gird his sword, and it falls.
Now mercy, heaven! the gods avert this omen!
Hect. A foolish omen! take it up again,
And mend thy error.
Andr. I cannot, for my hand obeys me not;
But, as in slumbers, when we fain would run
From our imagined fears, our idle feet
Grow to the ground, our struggling voice dies inward;
So now, when I would force myself to chear you,
My faltering tongue can give no glad presage:
Alas, I am no more Andromache.
Hect. Why then thy former soul is flown to me;
For I, methinks, am lifted into air,
As if my mind, mastering my mortal part,
Would bear my exalted body to the gods.
Last night I dreamt Jove sat on Ida’s top,
And, beckoning with his hand divine from far,
He pointed to a choir of demi-gods,
Bacchus and Hercules, and all the rest,
Who, free from human toils, had gained the pitch
Of blest eternity; — Lo there, he said,
Lo there’s a place for Hector.
Andr. Be to thy enemies this boding dream!
Hect. Why, it portends me honour and renown.
Andr. Such honour as the brave gain after death;
For I have dreamt all night of horrid slaughters,
Of trampling horses, and of chariot wheels
Wading in blood up to their axle-trees;
Of fiery demons gliding down the skies,
And Ilium brightened with a midnight blaze:
O therefore, if thou lovest me, go not forth.
Hect. Go to thy bed again, and there dream better. —
Ho! bid my trumpet sound.
Andr. No notes of sally, for the heaven’s sweet sake!
’Tis not for nothing when my spirits droop;
This is a day when thy ill stars are strong,
When they have driven thy helpless genius down
The steep of heaven, to some obscure retreat.
Hect. No more; even as thou lovest my fame, no more;
My honour stands engaged to meet Achilles.
What will the Grecians think, or what will he,
Or what will Troy, or what wilt thou thyself,
When once this ague fit of fear is o’er,
If I should lose my honour for a dream?
Andr. Your enemies too well yo
ur courage know,
And heaven abhors the forfeit of rash vows,
Like spotted livers in a sacrifice.
I cannot, O I dare not let you go;
For, when you leave me, my presaging mind
Says, I shall never, never see you more.
Hect. Thou excellently good, but oh too soft,
Let me not ‘scape the danger of this day;
But I have struggling in my manly soul,
To see those modest tears, ashamed to fall,
And witness any part of woman in thee!
And now I fear, lest thou shouldst think it fear,
If, thus dissuaded, I refuse to fight,
And stay inglorious in thy arms at home.
Andr. Oh, could I have that thought, I should not love thee;
Thy soul is proof to all things but to kindness;
And therefore ’twas that I forbore to tell thee,
How mad Cassandra, full of prophecy,
Ran round the streets, and, like a Bacchanal,
Cried, — Hold him, Priam, ’tis an ominous day;
Let him not go, for Hector is no more.
Hect. Our life is short, but to extend that span
To vast eternity, is virtue’s work;
Therefore to thee, and not to fear of fate,
Which once must come to all, give I this day.
But see thou move no more the like request;
For rest assured, that, to regain this hour,
To-morrow will I tempt a double danger.
Mean time, let destiny attend thy leisure;
I reckon this one day a blank of life.
Enter Troilus.
Troil. Where are you, brother? now, in honour’s name,
What do you mean to be thus long unarmed?
The embattled soldiers throng about the gates;
The matrons to the turrets’ tops ascend,
Holding their helpless children in their arms,
To make you early known to their young eyes,
And Hector is the universal shout.
Hect. Bid all unarm; I will not fight to-day.
Troil. Employ some coward to bear back this news,
And let the children hoot him for his pains.
By all the gods, and by my just revenge,
This sun shall shine the last for them or us;
These noisy streets, or yonder echoing plains,
Shall be to-morrow silent as the grave.
Andr. O brother, do not urge a brother’s fate,
But, let this wreck of heaven and earth roll o’er,
And, when the storm is past, put out to sea.
Troil. O now I know from whence his change proceeds;