Chapter I: Part 1

THE TRAGEDIE OF TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

The Prologue

In Troy there lyes the Scene: From Iles of Greece The Princes Orgillous, their high blood chaf’d Haue to the Port of Athens ſent their ſhippes Fraught with the miniſters and inſtruments Of cruell Warre: Sixty and nine that wore Their Crownets Regall, from th’ Athenian bay Put forth toward Phrygia, and their vow is made To ranſacke Troy, within whoſe ſtrong emures The rauiſh’d Helen, Menelaus Queene, With wanton Paris sleepes, and that’s the Quarrell. To Tenedos they come, And the deepe-drawing Barke do there diſgorge Their warlike frautage: now on Dardan Plaines The freſh and yet unbruiſed Greekes do pitch Their braue Pauillions. Priams ſix-gated City, Dardan and Timbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien, And Antenonidus with maſsie Staples And correſponſiue and fulfilling Bolts Stirre up the Sonnes of Troy. Now Expectation tickling skittiſh ſpirits, On one and other ſide, Troian and Greeke, Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come, A Prologue arm’d, but not in confidence Of Authors pen, or Actors voyce, but ſuited In like conditions, as our Argument, To tell you (faire Beholders) that our Play Leapes ore the vaunt and firſtlings of those broyles, Beginning in the middle. ſtarting thence away, To what may be digeſted in a Play: Like, or finde fault, do as your pleaſures are, Now good, or bad, ’tis but the chance of Warre.

Actus Primus. Scœna Prima.

_Enter Pandarus and Troylus_

_Troylus_. Call here my Varlet, Ile vnarme againe. Why should I warre without the walls of Troy That finde ſuch cruell battell here within? Each Troian that is maſter of his heart, Let him to field, _Troylus_, alas hath none.

_Pan_. Will this geere nere be mended?

_Troy_. The Greeks are strong, & and skilful to their ſtrength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceneſſe Valiant: But I am weaker then a womans teare: Tamer then ſleepe, fonder then ignorance; Leſſe valiant then the Virgin in the night, And skillneſſe as vnpractis’d Infancie.

_Pan_. Well, I haue told you enough of this: For my part, Ile not meddle nor make no farther. Hee that will haue a Cake out of the Wheate muſt needes tarry the grinding.

_Troy_. Haue I not tarried?

_Pan_. I the grinding, but you muſt tarry the bolting.

_Troy_. Haue I not tarried?

_Pan_. I the bolting; but you muſt tarry the leau’ing.

_Troy_. Still haue I tarried.

_Pan_. I to the leauening: but heeres yet in the word hereafter the Kneading, the making of the Cake, the heating of the Ouen, and the Baking; nay, you muſt ſtay the cooling too, or you may chance to burne your lips.

_Troy_. Patience herſelfe, what Goddeſſe ere ſhe be, Doth leſſer blench at ſufferance, then I doe: At _Priams_ Royall Table doe I ſit; And when faire _Creſſid_ comes into my thoughts, So (Traitor) then ſhe comes, when ſhe is thence.

_Pan_. Well: She look’d yeſternight fairer, then euer I ſaw her looke, Or any woman eſſe.

_Troy_. I was about to tell thee, when my heart, As wedged with a ſigh, would riue in twaine, Leaſt _Hector_ or my Father ſhould perceiue me: I haue (as when the Sunne doth light a-ſcorne) Buried this ſigh, in wrinkle of a ſmile: But ſorrow, that is couch’d in ſeeming gladneſſe, Is like that mirth, Fate turnes to ſudden sadneſſe.

_Pan_. And her haire were not ſomewhat darker then _Helens_, well go too, there were no more compariſon betweene the Women. But for my part ſhe is my Kinſwoman, I would not (as they tearme it) praiſe it, but I wold ſome-body had heard her talk yeſterday as I did: I will not dispraiſe your ſiſter _Caſſandra’s_ wit, but—

_Troy_. Oh _Pandarus!_ I tell thee _Pandarus;_ When I doe tell thee, there my hopes lye drown’d: Reply not in how many Fadomes deepe They lye indrench’d. I tell thee, I am mad In _Creſſids_ loue. Thou anſwer’ſt ſhe is Faire, Powr’ſt in the open Vlcer of my heart, Her Eyes, her Haire, her Cheeke, her Gate, her Voice, Handleſt in thy diſcourſe. O that her Hand (In whoſe compariſon, all whites are Inke) Writing their owne reproach; to whoſe ſoft ſeizure, The Cignets Downe is harſh, and ſpirit of Senſe Hard as the palme of Plough-man. This thou tel’ſt me; As true thou tel’ſt me when I ſay I loue her: But ſaying thus, inſtead of Oyle and Balme, Thou lai’ſt in euery gaſh that loue hath giuen me, The Knife that made it.

_Pan_. I ſpeak no more then truth.

_Troy_. Thou do’ſt not ſpeake ſo much.

_Pan_. Faith, Ile not meddle in’t: Let her be as ſhee is, if ſhe be faire, ’tis the better for her, and ſhe be not, ſhe ha’s the mends in her owne hands.

_Troy_. Good _Pandarus:_ How now, _Pandarus?_

_Pan_. I haue had my Labour for my trauell, ill thought on of her, and ill thought on of you; Gone betweene and betweene, but ſmall thankes for my labour.

_Troy_. What art thou angry _Pandarus?_ what with me?

_Pan_. Becauſe ſhe’s Kinne to me, therefore ſhee’s not ſo fair as _Helen_, and ſhe were not kin to me, ſhe would be as faire on Friday, as _Helen_ is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not and ſhe were a Black-a Moore, ’tis all one to me.

_Troy_. Say I ſhe is not faire?

_Pan_. I doe not care whether you doe or no. Shee’s a Foole to ſtay behinde her Father: Let her to the Greeks, and ſo Ile tell her the next time I ſee her: for my part, Ile meddle nor make no more i’ th’ matter.

_Troy_. _Pandarus?_

_Pan_. Not I.

_Troy_. Sweete _Pandarus_.

_Pan_. Pray you ſpeak no more to me, I will leaue all as I found it, and there an end.

Exit _Pand_.

_Sound Alarum_

_Tro_. Peace you vngracious Clamors, peace rude ſounds, Fooles on both ſides, _Helen_ muſt needs be faire, When with your bloud you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight vpon this Argument: It is too staru’d a ſubiect for my Sword, But _Pandarus_. O Gods! How do you plague me? I cannot come to _Creſſid_ but by _Pandar_, And he’s as teachy to be woo’d to woe, As ſhe is ſtubborne, chast againſt all ſuite. Tell me _Apollo_ for thy _Daphnes_ Loue What _Creſſid_ is, what _Pandar_, and what we: Her bed is _India_, there ſhe lies, a Pearle, Between our Ilium, and where ſhee recides Let it be cald the wild and wandring flood, Our ſelf the Merchant, and this ſayling _Pandar_, Our doubtfull hope, our conuoy and our Barke.

_Alarum. Enter Æneas_.

_Æne_. How now Prince _Troylus?_ Wherefore not a field?

_Troy_. Becauſe not there; this womans anſwer ſorts. For womaniſh it is to be from thence: What newes _Æneas_ from the field to day?

_Æne_. That _Paris_ is returned home, and hurt.

_Troy_. By whom _Æneas?_

_Æne_. _Troylus_ by _Menelaus_.

_Troy_. Let _Paris_ bleed, ’tis but a ſcar to ſcorne, _Paris_ is gor’d with _Menelaus_ horne.

_Alarum_,

_Æne_. Harke what good ſport is out of Towne to day.

_Troy_. Better at home, if would I might were may: But to the ſport abroad, are you bound thither?

_Æne_. In all ſwift haſte.

_Troy_. Come, goe wee then togither.

_Exeunt_.

_Enter Creſſid and her man_.

_Cre_. Who were thoſe went by?

_Man_. Queen _Hecuba_, and _Hellen_.

_Cre_. And whether go they?

_Man_. Vp to the Eaſterne Tower, Whoſe height commands as ſubiect all the vaile, To ſee the battell: _Hector_ whoſe pacience, Is as a Vertue fixt, to day was mou’d. He chides _Andromache_ and ſtrooke his Armorer, And like as there were husbandry in Warre Before the Sunne rose, hee was harneſt lyte, And to the field goe’s he; where euery flower Did as a Prophet weepe what it foreſaw In _Hectors_ wrath.

_Cre_. What was his cauſe of anger?

_Man_. The noiſe goe’s this; There is among the Greekes, A Lord of Troian blood, Nephew to _Hector_, They call him _Aiax_.

_Cre_. Good; and what of him?

_Man_. They ſay he is a very man _per ſe_ and stands alone.

_Cre_. So do all men, vnleſſe they are drunke, ſicke, or haue no legges.

_Man_. This man Lady, hath rob’d many beaſts of their particular additions, he is as valiant as the Lyon, churliſh as the Beare, ſlow as the Elephant: a man into whom nature hath so crowded humors, that his valour is cruſht into folly, his folly ſauced with diſcretion: there is no man hath a vertue, that he hath not a glimpſe of, nor any man an attaint, but he carries ſome ſtaine of it. He is melancholy without cauſe, and merry againſt the haire, hee hath the ioynts of euery thing, but euery thing ſo out of ioynt, that hee is a gowtie _Briareus_, many hands and no vſe; or purblinded _Argus_, all eyes and no ſight.

_Cre_. But how ſhould this man that makes me ſmile, make _Hector_ angry?

_Man_. They ſay he yeſterday cop’d _Hector_ in the battle and ſtroke him downe, the diſdaind & ſhame whereof, hath euer since kept _Hector_ fasting and waking.

_Enter Pandarus_.

_Cre_. Who comes here?

_Man_. Madam your Vncle _Pandarus_.

_Cre_. _Hectors_ a gallant man.

_Man_. As may be in the world Lady.

_Pan_. What’s that? what’s that?

_Cre_. Good morrow Vncle _Pandarus_.

_Pan_. Good morrow Cozen _Creſſid:_ what do you talke of? good morrow _Alexander_. how do you Cozen? when were you at Illium?

_Cre_. This morning Vncle.

_Pan_. What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector arm’d and gon ere yea came to Illium? _Hellen_ was not vp? was ſhe?

_Cre_. _Hector_ was gone but _Hellen_ was not up?

_Pan_. E’ene ſo; _Hector_ was ſtirring early.

_Cre_. That were we talking of and of his anger.

_Pan_. Was he angry?

_Cre_. So he ſaies here.

_Pan_. True, he was ſo; I know the cauſe too, heele lay about him to day I can tell them that and there’s _Troylus_ will not come farre behind him, let them take heede of _Troylus;_ I can tell them that too.

_Cre_. What, is he angry too?

_Pan_. Who, _Troylus?_ _Troylus_ is the better man of the two.

_Cre_. Oh _Iupiter;_ there’s no compariſon.

_Pan_. What not betweene _Troylus_ and _Hector?_ do you know a man if you ſee him?

_Cre_. I, if I euer ſaw him before and knew him.

_Pan_. Well, I ſay _Troylus_ is _Troylus_.

_Cre_. Then you ſay as I ſay, For I am ſure he is not _Hector_.

_Pan_. No not _Hector_ is not _Troylus_ in ſome degrees.

_Cre_. ’Tis just to each of them he is himſelfe.

_Pan_. Himſelfe? alas, poore _Troylus_ I would he were.

_Cre_. So he is.

_Pan_. Condition I had gone bare-foote to India.

_Cre_. He is not _Hector_.

_Pan_. Himſelfe? no? hee’s not himſselfe, would a were himſelfe: well, the Gods are aboue, time muſt friend or end: well _Troylus_ well, I would my heart were in her body; no, _Hector_ is not a better man then _Troylus_.

_Cre_. Excuſe me.

_Pan_. He is elder.

_Cre_. Pardon me, pardon me.

_Pan_. Th’others not come too’t, you ſhall tell me another tale when th’others come too’t: _Hector_ ſhall not haue his will this yeare.

_Cre_. He ſhall not neede it if he haue his owne.

_Pan_. Nor his qualities.

_Cre_. No matter.

_Pan_. Nor his beautie.

_Cre_. ’Twould not become him, his own’s better.

_Pan_. You haue no iudgment Neece; _Hellen_ her ſelfe ſwore th’other day that _Troylus_ for a browne favour (for ſo ’tis I must confeſſe) not browne neither.

_Cre_. No, but browne.

_Pan_. Faith, to ſay truth, browne and not browne.

_Cre_. To ſay the truth, true and not true.

_Pan_. She prais’d his complexion above _Paris_.

_Cre_. Why _Paris_ hath colour inough.

_Pan_. So he has.

_Cre_. Then _Troylus_ should haue too much, if ſhe prasi’d him aboue, his complexion is higher then his, he hauing colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praiſe for a good complexion. I had as lieue _Hellens_ golden tongue had commended _Troylus_ for a copper noſe.

_Pan_. I ſweare to you, I think _Hellen_ loues him better then _Paris_.

_Cre_. Then ſhee’s a merry Greeke indeed.

_Pan_. Nay I am ſure ſhe does, ſhe came to him th’other day into the compaſt window, and you know he has not paſt three or foure haires on his chinne.

_Cre_. Indeed a Tapsters Arithmetique may ſoone bring his particulars therein to a totall.

_Pan_. Why he is very yong, and yet will he within three pound lift as much as his brother _Hector_.

_Cre_. Is he ſo young a man, and ſo old a lifter?

_Pan_. But to prooue to you that _Hellen_ loues him, ſhe came and puts me her white hand to his clouen chin.

_Cre_. _Juno_ haue mercy, how came it clouen?

_Pan_. Why, you know ’tis dimpled, I thinke his ſmyling becomes him better then any man in all Phrigia.

_Cre_. Oh he ſmiles valiantly.

_Pan_. Dooes hee not?

_Cre_. Oh yes, and ’twere a clow’d in _Autumne_.

_Pan_. Why go to then, but to proue to you that _Hellen_ loues _Troylus_.

_Cre_. _Troylus_ will ſtand to thee Proofe, if youle prooue it ſo.

_Pan_. _Troylus?_ why he eſteemes her no more then I eſteeme an addle egge.

_Cre_. If you loue an addle egge as well as you loue an idle head, you would eate chickens i’ th’ ſhell.

_Pan_. I cannot chuſe but laugh to thinke how ſhe tickled his chin, indeed ſhee has a maruel’s white hand I muſt needs confeſſe.

_Cre_. Without the racke.

_Pan_. And ſhee takes vpon her to ſpie a white haire on his chinne.

_Cre_. Alas poore chin? many a wart is richer.

_Pan_. But there was ſuch laughing, Queen _Hecuba_ laught that her eyes ran ore.

_Cre_. With Milſtones.

_Pan_. And _Caſſandra_ laught.

_Cre_. But there was a more temperate fire vnder the pot of her eyes: did her eyes run ore too?

_Pan_. And _Hector_ laught.

_Cre_. At what was all this laughing?

_Pan_. Marry at the white haire that _Hellen_ ſpied on _Troylus_ chin.

_Cre_. And t’had beene a greene haire, I ſhould haue laught too.

_Pan_. They laught not ſo much at the haire, as at his pretty anſwere.

_Cre_. What was his anſwere?

_Pan_. Quoth ſhee, heere’s but two and fifty haires on your chinne; and one of them is white.

_Cre_. This is her queſtion.

_Pand_. That’s true, make no queſtion of that, two and fiftie haires quoth hee, and one white, that white haire is my Father, and all the reſt are his Sonnes. _Iupiter_ quoth ſhe, which of theſe haires is _Paris_ my husband? The forked one quoth he, pluckt out and giue it him: but there was ſuch laughing, and _Hellen_ so bluſht, and _Paris_ ſo chaft, and all the reſt ſo laught, that it paſt.

_Cre_. So let it now, For it has beene a great while going by.

_Pan_. Well, Cozen, I told you a thing yeſterday, think on’t.

_Cre_. So I does.

_Pan_. Ile be ſworne ’tis true, he will weepe you an ’twere a man borne in Aprill.

_Sound a retreat_.

_Cre_. And Ile ſpring vp in his teares, an ’twere a nettle againſt May.

_Pan_. Harke they are comming from the field, shal we ſtand vp here and ſee them, as they paſſe toward Illium, good Neece do, ſweet Neece _Creſſida_.

_Cre_. At your pleaſure.

_Pan_. Heere, heere, here’s an excellent place, heere we may ſee moſt brauely, Ile tel you them all by their names, as they paſſe by, but mark _Troylus_ aboue the reſt.

_Enter Æneas_.

_Cre_. Speake not ſo low’d.

_Pan_. That’s _Æneas_. is not that a braue man, hee’s one of the flowers of Troy I can you, but merke _Troylus_. you ſhall ſee anon.

_Cre_. Who’s that?

_Enter Antenor_.

_Pan_. That’s _Antenor_, he has a ſhrow’d wit I can tell you, and hee’s a man good inough, hee’s one o’th ſoundeſt iudgment in Troy whoſoeuer, and a proper man of perſon: when comes _Troylus?_ Ile ſhew you _Troylus_ anon, if hee ſee me, you ſhall ſee him nod at me.

_Cre_. Will he giue you the nod?

_Pan_. You ſhall ſee.

_Cre_. If he do, the rich ſhall haue more.

_Enter Hector_.

_Pan_. That’s _Hector_, that, that, looke you, that there’s a fellow. Goe thy way _Hector_, there’s a braue man Neece, O braue _Hector!_ Looke how hee lookes? there’s a countenance; iſt not a braue man?

_Cre_. O braue man!

_Pan_. Is a not? It dooes a mans heart good, looke you what hacks are on his Helmet. looke you yonder, do you ſee? Looke you there? There’s no ieſting, laying on, tak’t off, who ill as they ſay, there be hacks.

_Cre_. Be thoſe with Swords?

_Enter Paris_.

_Pan_. Swords, any thing, he cares not, and the diuell come to him, it’s all one, by Gods lid it dooes ones heart good. Yonder comes _Paris_, yonder comes _Paris_: looke yee yonder Neece, iſt not a gallant man to, iſt not? Why this is braue now: who ſaid he came hurt home to day? Hee’s not hurt, why this will do _Hellens_ heart good now, ha? Would I could ſee _Troylus_ now, you ſhall _Troylus_ anon.

_Cre_. Whoſe that

_Enter Hellenus_.

_Pan_. That’s _Hellenus_, I maruell where _Troylus_ is, that’s _Helenus_, I thinke he went not forth to day: that’s _Hellenus_.

_Cre_. Can _Hellenus_ fight, Vncle?

_Pan_. _Hellenus_ no: yes heele fight indifferent, well, I maruell where _Troylus_ is; harke, do you not heare the people crie _Troylus?_ _Hellenus_ is a Prieſt.

_Cre_. What ſneaking fellow comes yonder?

_Enter Troylus_

_Pan_. Where? Yonder? That’s _Daphobus_. ’Tis _Troylus!_ Ther’s a man Neece, hem; Braue _Troylus_, the Prince of Chiualrie.

_Cre_. Peace, for ſhame, peace.

_Pan_. Marke him, not him: O braue _Troylus:_ looke well vpon him Neece, looke you how his Sword is bloudied, and his Helme more hackt than _Hectors_, and how he lookes, and how he goes. O admirable youth! he ne’er ſaw three and twenty. Go thy way _Troylus_, go thy way, had I a ſiſter were a _Grace_, or a daughter a Goddeſſe, hee ſhould take his choice. O admirable man! _Paris? Paris_ is durt to him, and, I warrant, _Helen_ to change, would giue money to boot.

_Enter common Soldiers_.

_Cre_. Heere come more.

_Pan_. Aſſes, fooles, dolts, chaff and bran, chaffe and bran; porredge after meat. I could liue and dye i’ th’ eyes of _Troylus_. Ne’re looke, ne’re looke; the Eagles are gon, Crowes and Dawes, Crowes and Dawes: I had rather be ſuch a man as _Troylus_, then _Agamemnon_ and all Greece.

_Cre_. There is among the Greekes _Achilles_, a better man then _Troylus_.

_Pan_. _Achilles?_ A Dray-man, a Porter, a very Camell.

_Cre_. Well well.

_Pan_. Well, well? Why haue you any diſcretion? haue you any eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good ſhape, diſcourſe, manhood, learning, gentleneſſe, vertue, youth, liberality, and ſo forth; the Spice, and ſalt that ſeaſon a man?

_Cre_. I, a minc’d man and then to be bak’d with no Date in the pye, for then the man’s dates out.

_Pan_. You are ſuch another woman, one knowes not at what ward you lye.

_Cre_. Vpon my backe, to defend my belly; vpon my wit, to defend my wiles; vppon my ſecrecy, to defend mine honeſty; my Maske, to defend my beauty, and you to defend all theſe: and at all theſe wardes I lye at, at a thouſand watches.

_Pan_. Say one of your watches.

_Cre_. Nay Ile watch you for that, and that’s one of the cheefeſt of them too. If I cannot ward what I would not haue hit, I can watch you for telling how I took the blow, unleſſ it ſwell paſt hiding, and then it’s paſt watching

_Enter Boy_.

_Pan_. You are ſuch another.

_Boy_. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you.

_Pan_. Where?

_Boy_. At your own house; there he unarms him.

_Pan_. Good boy, tell him I come. Exit Boy I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece.

_Cre_. Adieu, uncle.

_Pan_. I will be with you, niece, by and by.

_Cre_. To bring, uncle.

_Pan_. Ay, a token from Troylus. Exit

_Cre_. By the same token, you are a bawd. Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacrifice, He offers in another’s enterprise; But more in Troylus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be, Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing: Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing. That she belov’d knows nought that knows not this: Men prize the thing ungain’d more than it is. That she was never yet that ever knew Love got so sweet as when desire did sue; Therefore this maxim out of love I teach: Achievement is command; ungain’d, beseech. Then though my heart’s content firm love doth bear, Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. Exit

Sennet. Enter Agamemnon, Nestor, Vlyſſes, Diomedes, Menelaus, and others

_Agam_. Princes, What grief hath set these jaundies o’er your cheeks? The ample proposition that hope makes In all designs begun on earth below Fails in the promis’d largeness; checks and disasters Grow in the veins of actions highest rear’d, As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap, Infects the sound pine, and diverts his grain Tortive and errant from his course of growth. Nor, princes, is it matter new to us That we come short of our suppose so far That after seven years’ siege yet Troy walls stand; Sith every action that hath gone before, Whereof we have record, trial did draw Bias and thwart, not answering the aim, And that unbodied figure of the thought That gave’t surmised shape. Why then, you princes, Do you with cheeks abash’d behold our works And call them shames, which are, indeed, nought else But the protractive trials of great Jove To find persistive constancy in men; The fineness of which metal is not found In fortune’s love? For then the bold and coward, The wise and fool, the artist and unread, The hard and soft, seem all affin’d and kin. But in the wind and tempest of her frown Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan, Puffing at all, winnows the light away; And what hath mass or matter by itself Lies rich in virtue and unmingled.

_Nestor_. With due observance of thy godlike seat, Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance Lies the true proof of men. The sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble boats dare sail Upon her patient breast, making their way With those of nobler bulk! But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage The gentle Thetis, and anon behold The strong-ribb’d bark through liquid mountains cut, Bounding between the two moist elements Like Perseus’ horse. Where’s then the saucy boat, Whose weak untimber’d sides but even now Co-rivall’d greatness? Either to harbour fled Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so Doth valour’s show and valour’s worth divide In storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness The herd hath more annoyance by the breeze Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, And flies fled under shade-why, then the thing of courage As rous’d with rage, with rage doth sympathise, And with an accent tun’d in self-same key Retorts to chiding fortune.

_Vlyſ_. Agamemnon, Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit In whom the tempers and the minds of all Should be shut up-hear what Vlyſſes speaks. Besides the applause and approbation The which, [To Agamemnon] most mighty, for thy place and sway, [To Nestor] And, thou most reverend, for thy stretch’d-out life, I give to both your speeches- which were such As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece Should hold up high in brass; and such again As venerable Nestor, hatch’d in silver, Should with a bond of air, strong as the axle-tree On which heaven rides, knit all the Greekish ears To his experienc’d tongue-yet let it please both, Thou great, and wise, to hear Vlyſſes speak.

_Agam_. Speak, Prince of Ithaca; and be’t of less expect That matter needless, of importless burden, Divide thy lips than we are confident, When rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws, We shall hear music, wit, and oracle.

_Vlyſ_. Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, And the great Hector’s sword had lack’d a master, But for these instances: The specialty of rule hath been neglected; And look how many Grecian tents do stand Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general is not like the hive, To whom the foragers shall all repair, What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded, Th’ unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre, Observe degree, priority, and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office, and custom, in all line of order; And therefore is the glorious planet Sol In noble eminence enthron’d and spher’d Amidst the other, whose med’cinable eye Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil, And posts, like the commandment of a king, Sans check, to good and bad. But when the planets In evil mixture to disorder wander, What plagues and what portents, what mutiny, What raging of the sea, shaking of earth, Commotion in the winds! Frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack, rend and deracinate, The unity and married calm of states Quite from their fixture! O, when degree is shak’d, Which is the ladder of all high designs, The enterprise is sick! How could communities, Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, The primogenity and due of birth, Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, But by degree, stand in authentic place? Take but degree away, untune that string, And hark what discord follows! Each thing melts In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores, And make a sop of all this solid globe; Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead; Force should be right; or, rather, right and wrong- Between whose endless jar justice resides- Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, This chaos, when degree is suffocate, Follows the choking. And this neglection of degree it is That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose It hath to climb. The general’s disdain’d By him one step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath; so ever step, Exampl’d by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation. And ’tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength.

_Nestor_. Most wisely hath Vlyſſes here discover’d The fever whereof all our power is sick.

_Agam_. The nature of the sickness found, Vlyſſes, What is the remedy?

_Vlyſ_. The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking our designs; with him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests; And with ridiculous and awkward action- Which, slanderer, he imitation calls- He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on; And like a strutting player whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound ’Twixt his stretch’d footing and the scaffoldage- Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming He acts thy greatness in; and when he speaks ’Tis like a chime a-mending; with terms unsquar’d, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp’d, Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff The large Achilles, on his press’d bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries ‘Excellent! ’tis Agamemnon just. Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard, As he being drest to some oration.’ That’s done-as near as the extremest ends Of parallels, as like Vulcan and his wife; Yet god Achilles still cries ‘Excellent! ’Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night alarm.’ And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age Must be the scene of mirth: to cough and spit And, with a palsy-fumbling on his gorget, Shake in and out the rivet. And at this sport Sir Valour dies; cries ‘O, enough, Patroclus; Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all In pleasure of my spleen.’ And in this fashion All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, Severals and generals of grace exact, Achievements, plots, orders, preventions, Excitements to the field or speech for truce, Success or loss, what is or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes.

_Nestor_. And in the imitation of these twain- Who, as Vlyſſes says, opinion crowns With an imperial voice-many are infect. Aiax is grown self-will’d and bears his head In such a rein, in full as proud a place As broad Achilles; keeps his tent like him; Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of war Bold as an oracle, and sets Thersites, A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint, To match us in comparisons with dirt, To weaken and discredit our exposure, How rank soever rounded in with danger.

_Vlyſ_. They tax our policy and call it cowardice, Count wisdom as no member of the war, Forestall prescience, and esteem no act But that of hand. The still and mental parts That do contrive how many hands shall strike When fitness calls them on, and know, by measure Of their observant toil, the enemies’ weight- Why, this hath not a finger’s dignity: They call this bed-work, mapp’ry, closet-war; So that the ram that batters down the wall, For the great swinge and rudeness of his poise, They place before his hand that made the engine, Or those that with the fineness of their souls By reason guide his execution.

_Nestor_. Let this be granted, and Achilles’ horse Makes many Thetis’ sons. [Tucket]

_Agam_. What trumpet? Look, Menelaus.

_Men_. From Troy.

Enter Æneas

_Agam_. What would you fore our tent?

_Æne_. Is this great Agamemnon’s tent, I pray you?

_Agam_. Even this.

_Æne_. May one that is a herald and a prince Do a fair message to his kingly eyes?

_Agam_. With surety stronger than Achilles’ an Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice Call Agamemnon head and general.

_Æne_. Fair leave and large security. How may A stranger to those most imperial looks Know them from eyes of other mortals?

_Agam_. How?

_Æne_. Ay; I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as Morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus. Which is that god in office, guiding men? Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon?

_Agam_. This Troian scorns us, or the men of Troy Are ceremonious courtiers.

_Æne_. Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm’d, As bending angels; that’s their fame in peace. But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls, Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove’s accord, Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Æneas, Peace, Troian; lay thy finger on thy lips. The worthiness of praise distains his worth, If that the prais’d himself bring the praise forth; But what the repining enemy commends, That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends.

_Agam_. Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Æneas?

_Æne_. Ay, Greek, that is my name.

_Agam_. What’s your affair, I pray you?

_Æne_. Sir, pardon; ’tis for Agamemnon’s ears.

_Agam_. He hears nought privately that comes from Troy.

_Æne_. Nor I from Troy come not to whisper with him; I bring a trumpet to awake his ear, To set his sense on the attentive bent, And then to speak.

_Agam_. Speak frankly as the wind; It is not Agamemnon’s sleeping hour. That thou shalt know, Troian, he is awake, He tells thee so himself.

_Æne_. Trumpet, blow loud, Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents; And every Greek of mettle, let him know What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud. [Sound trumpet] We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy A prince called Hector-Priam is his father- Who in this dull and long-continued truce Is resty grown; he bade me take a trumpet And to this purpose speak: Kings, princes, lords! If there be one among the fair’st of Greece That holds his honour higher than his ease, That seeks his praise more than he fears his peril, That knows his valour and knows not his fear, That loves his mistress more than in confession With truant vows to her own lips he loves, And dare avow her beauty and her worth In other arms than hers-to him this challenge. Hector, in view of Troians and of Greeks, Shall make it good or do his best to do it: He hath a lady wiser, fairer, truer, Than ever Greek did couple in his arms; And will to-morrow with his trumpet call Mid-way between your tents and walls of Troy To rouse a Grecian that is true in love. If any come, Hector shall honour him; If none, he’ll say in Troy, when he retires, The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth The splinter of a lance. Even so much.

_Agam_. This shall be told our lovers, Lord Æneas. If none of them have soul in such a kind, We left them all at home. But we are soldiers; And may that soldier a mere recreant prove That means not, hath not, or is not in love. If then one is, or hath, or means to be, That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he.

_Nestor_. Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man When Hector’s grandsire suck’d. He is old now; But if there be not in our Grecian mould One noble man that hath one spark of fire To answer for his love, tell him from me I’ll hide my silver beard in a gold beaver, And in my vantbrace put this wither’d brawn, And, meeting him, will tell him that my lady Was fairer than his grandame, and as chaste As may be in the world. His youth in flood, I’ll prove this truth with my three drops of blood.

_Æne_. Now heavens forfend such scarcity of youth!

_Vlyſ_. Amen.

_Agam_. Fair Lord Æneas, let me touch your hand; To our pavilion shall I lead you, first. Achilles shall have word of this intent; So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent. Yourself shall feast with us before you go, And find the welcome of a noble foe. Exeunt all but Vlyſſes and Nestor Vlyſſes. Nestor!

_Nestor_. What says Vlyſſes?

_Vlyſ_. I have a young conception in my brain; Be you my time to bring it to some shape.

_Nestor_. What is’t?

_Vlyſ_. This ’tis: Blunt wedges rive hard knots. The seeded pride That hath to this maturity blown up In rank Achilles must or now be cropp’d Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil To overbulk us all.

_Nestor_. Well, and how?

_Vlyſ_. This challenge that the gallant Hector sends, However it is spread in general name, Relates in purpose only to Achilles.

_Nestor_. True. The purpose is perspicuous even as substance Whose grossness little characters sum up; And, in the publication, make no strain But that Achilles, were his brain as barren As banks of Libya-though, Apollo knows, ’Tis dry enough-will with great speed of judgement, Ay, with celerity, find Hector’s purpose Pointing on him.

_Vlyſ_. And wake him to the answer, think you?

_Nestor_. Why, ’tis most meet. Who may you else oppose That can from Hector bring those honours off, If not Achilles? Though ’t be a sportful combat, Yet in this trial much opinion dwells; For here the Troians taste our dear’st repute With their fin’st palate; and trust to me, Vlyſſes, Our imputation shall be oddly pois’d In this vile action; for the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of good or bad unto the general; And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mas Of things to come at large. It is suppos’d He that meets Hector issues from our choice; And choice, being mutual act of all our souls, Makes merit her election, and doth boil, As ’twere from forth us all, a man distill’d Out of our virtues; who miscarrying, What heart receives from hence a conquering part, To steel a strong opinion to themselves? Which entertain’d, limbs are his instruments, In no less working than are swords and bows Directive by the limbs.

_Vlyſ_. Give pardon to my speech. Therefore ’tis meet Achilles meet not Hector. Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares And think perchance they’ll sell; if not, the lustre Of the better yet to show shall show the better, By showing the worst first. Do not consent That ever Hector and Achilles meet; For both our honour and our shame in this Are dogg’d with two strange followers.

_Nestor_. I see them not with my old eyes. What are they?

_Vlyſ_. What glory our Achilles shares from Hector, Were he not proud, we all should wear with him; But he already is too insolent; And it were better parch in Afric sun Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes, Should he scape Hector fair. If he were foil’d, Why, then we do our main opinion crush In taint of our best man. No, make a lott’ry; And, by device, let blockish Aiax draw The sort to fight with Hector. Among ourselves Give him allowance for the better man; For that will physic the great Myrmidon, Who broils in loud applause, and make him fall His crest, that prouder than blue Iris bends. If the dull brainless Aiax come safe off, We’ll dress him up in voices; if he fail, Yet go we under our opinion still That we have better men. But, hit or miss, Our project’s life this shape of sense assumes- Aiax employ’d plucks down Achilles’ plumes.

_Nestor_. Now, Vlyſſes, I begin to relish thy advice; And I will give a taste thereof forthwith To Agamemnon. Go we to him straight. Two curs shall tame each other: pride alone Must tarre the mastiffs on, as ’twere their bone. Exeunt

Enter Aiax and Thersites

_Aiax_. Thersites!

_Ther_. Agamemnon-how if he had boils full, an over, generally?

_Aiax_. Thersites!

_Ther_. And those boils did run-say so. Did not the general run then? Were not that a botchy core?

_Aiax_. Dog!

_Ther_. Then there would come some matter from him; I see none now.

_Aiax_. Thou bitch-wolf’s son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then. [Strikes him]

_Ther_. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted lord!

_Aiax_. Speak, then, thou whinid’st leaven, speak. I will beat thee into handsomeness.

_Ther_. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? A red murrain o’ thy jade’s tricks!

_Aiax_. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.

_Ther_. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus?

_Aiax_. The proclamation!

_Ther_. Thou art proclaim’d, a fool, I think.

_Aiax_. Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers itch.

_Ther_. I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another.

_Aiax_. I say, the proclamation.

_Ther_. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty-ay, that thou bark’st at him.

_Aiax_. Mistress Thersites!

_Ther_. Thou shouldst strike him.

_Aiax_. Cobloaf!

_Ther_. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit.

_Aiax_. You whoreson cur! [Strikes him]

_Ther_. Do, do.

_Aiax_. Thou stool for a witch!

_Ther_. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows; an assinico may tutor thee. You scurvy valiant ass! Thou art here but to thrash Troians, and thou art bought and sold among those of any wit like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou!

_Aiax_. You dog!

_Ther_. You scurvy lord!

_Aiax_. You cur! [Strikes him]

_Ther_. Mars his idiot! Do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.

Enter Achilles and Patroclus

_Achil_. Why, how now, Aiax! Wherefore do you thus? How now, Thersites! What’s the matter, man?

_Ther_. You see him there, do you?

_Achil_. Ay; what’s the matter?

_Ther_. Nay, look upon him.

_Achil_. So I do. What’s the matter?

_Ther_. Nay, but regard him well.

_Achil_. Well! why, so I do.

_Ther_. But yet you look not well upon him; for who some ever you take him to be, he is Aiax.

_Achil_. I know that, fool.

_Ther_. Ay, but that fool knows not himself.

_Aiax_. Therefore I beat thee.

_Ther_. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! His evasions have ears thus long. I have bobb’d his brain more than he has beat my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This lord, Achilles, Aiax-who wears his wit in his belly and his guts in his head-I’ll tell you what I say of him.

_Achil_. What?

_Ther_. I say this Aiax- [Aiax offers to strike him]

_Achil_. Nay, good Aiax.

_Ther_. Has not so much wit-

_Achil_. Nay, I must hold you.

_Ther_. As will stop the eye of Helen’s needle, for whom he comes to fight.

_Achil_. Peace, fool.

_Ther_. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not- he there; that he; look you there.

_Aiax_. O thou damned cur! I shall-

_Achil_. Will you set your wit to a fool’s?

_Ther_. No, I warrant you, the fool’s will shame it.

_Patr_. Good words, Thersites.

_Achil_. What’s the quarrel?

_Aiax_. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he rails upon me.

_Ther_. I serve thee not.

_Aiax_. Well, go to, go to.

_Ther_. I serve here voluntary.

_Achil_. Your last service was suff’rance; ’twas not voluntary. No man is beaten voluntary. Aiax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress.

_Ther_. E’en so; a great deal of your wit too lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch an he knock out either of your brains: ’a were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel.

_Achil_. What, with me too, Thersites?

_Ther_. There’s Vlyſſes and old Nestor-whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on their toes-yoke you like draught oxen, and make you plough up the wars.

_Achil_. What, what?

_Ther_. Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Aiax, to-

_Aiax_. I shall cut out your tongue.

_Ther_. ’Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.

_Patr_. No more words, Thersites; peace!

_Ther_. I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brach bids me, shall I?

_Achil_. There’s for you, Patroclus.

_Ther_. I will see you hang’d like clotpoles ere I come any more to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools. Exit

_Patr_. A good riddance.

_Achil_. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through all our host, That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun, Will with a trumpet ’twixt our tents and Troy, To-morrow morning, call some knight to arms That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare Maintain I know not what; ’tis trash. Farewell.

_Aiax_. Farewell. Who shall answer him?

_Achil_. I know not; ’tis put to lott’ry. Otherwise. He knew his man.

_Aiax_. O, meaning you! I will go learn more of it. Exeunt

Enter Priam, Hector, Troylus, Paris, and Hellenus

_Pri_. After so many hours, lives, speeches, spent, Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks: ‘Deliver Helen, and all damage else- As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum’d In hot digestion of this cormorant war- Shall be struck off.’ Hector, what say you to’t?

_Hect_. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I, As far as toucheth my particular, Yet, dread Priam, There is no lady of more softer bowels, More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, More ready to cry out ‘Who knows what follows?’ Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure; but modest doubt is call’d The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th’ bottom of the worst. Let Helen go. Since the first sword was drawn about this question, Every tithe soul ’mongst many thousand dismes Hath been as dear as Helen-I mean, of ours. If we have lost so many tenths of ours To guard a thing not ours, nor worth to us, Had it our name, the value of one ten, What merit’s in that reason which denies The yielding of her up?

_Troy_. Fie, fie, my brother! Weigh you the worth and honour of a king, So great as our dread father’s, in a scale Of common ounces? Will you with counters sum The past-proportion of his infinite, And buckle in a waist most fathomless With spans and inches so diminutive As fears and reasons? Fie, for godly shame!

_Hel_. No marvel though you bite so sharp at reasons, You are so empty of them. Should not our father Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons, Because your speech hath none that tells him so?

_Troy_. You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest; You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your reasons: You know an enemy intends you harm; You know a sword employ’d is perilous, And reason flies the object of all harm. Who marvels, then, when Helenus beholds A Grecian and his sword, if he do set The very wings of reason to his heels And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, Or like a star disorb’d? Nay, if we talk of reason, Let’s shut our gates and sleep. Manhood and honour Should have hare hearts, would they but fat their thoughts With this cramm’d reason. Reason and respect Make livers pale and lustihood deject.

_Hect_. Brother, she is not worth what she doth, cost The keeping.

_Troy_. What’s aught but as ’tis valued?

_Hect_. But value dwells not in particular will: It holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein ’tis precious of itself As in the prizer. ’Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god-I And the will dotes that is attributive To what infectiously itself affects, Without some image of th’ affected merit.

_Troy_. I take to-day a wife, and my election Is led on in the conduct of my will; My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, Two traded pilots ’twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgement: how may I avoid, Although my will distaste what it elected, The wife I chose? There can be no evasion To blench from this and to stand firm by honour. We turn not back the silks upon the merchant When we have soil’d them; nor the remainder viands We do not throw in unrespective sieve, Because we now are full. It was thought meet Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks; Your breath with full consent benied his sails; The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce, And did him service. He touch’d the ports desir’d; And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness Wrinkles Apollo’s, and makes stale the morning. Why keep we her? The Grecians keep our aunt. Is she worth keeping? Why, she is a pearl Whose price hath launch’d above a thousand ships, And turn’d crown’d kings to merchants. If you’ll avouch ’twas wisdom Paris went- As you must needs, for you all cried ‘Go, go’- If you’ll confess he brought home worthy prize- As you must needs, for you all clapp’d your hands, And cried ‘Inestimable!’ -why do you now The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, And do a deed that never fortune did- Beggar the estimation which you priz’d Richer than sea and land? O theft most base, That we have stol’n what we do fear to keep! But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol’n That in their country did them that disgrace We fear to warrant in our native place!

_Caſ_. [Within] Cry, Troians, cry.

_Pri_. What noise, what shriek is this?

_Troy_. ’Tis our mad sister; I do know her voice.

_Caſ_. [Within] Cry, Troians.

_Hect_. It is Caſſandra.

Enter Caſſandra, raving

_Caſ_. Cry, Troians, cry. Lend me ten thousand eyes, And I will fill them with prophetic tears.

_Hect_. Peace, sister, peace.

_Caſ_. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld, Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry, Add to my clamours. Let us pay betimes A moiety of that mass of moan to come. Cry, Troians, cry. Practise your eyes with tears. Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand; Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. Cry, Troians, cry, A Helen and a woe! Cry, cry. Troy burns, or else let Helen go. Exit

_Hect_. Now, youthful Troylus, do not these high strains Of divination in our sister work Some touches of remorse, or is your blood So madly hot that no discourse of reason, Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause, Can qualify the same?

_Troy_. Why, brother Hector, We may not think the justness of each act Such and no other than event doth form it; Nor once deject the courage of our minds Because Caſſandra’s mad. Her brain-sick raptures Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel Which hath our several honours all engag’d To make it gracious. For my private part, I am no more touch’d than all Priam’s sons; And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us Such things as might offend the weakest spleen To fight for and maintain.

_Par_. Else might the world convince of levity As well my undertakings as your counsels; But I attest the gods, your full consent Gave wings to my propension, and cut of All fears attending on so dire a project. For what, alas, can these my single arms? What propugnation is in one man’s valour To stand the push and enmity of those This quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest, Were I alone to pass the difficulties, And had as ample power as I have will, Paris should ne’er retract what he hath done Nor faint in the pursuit.

_Pri_. Paris, you speak Like one besotted on your sweet delights. You have the honey still, but these the gall; So to be valiant is no praise at all.

_Par_. Sir, I propose not merely to myself The pleasures such a beauty brings with it; But I would have the soil of her fair rape Wip’d off in honourable keeping her. What treason were it to the ransack’d queen, Disgrace to your great worths, and shame to me, Now to deliver her possession up On terms of base compulsion! Can it be That so degenerate a strain as this Should once set footing in your generous bosoms? There’s not the meanest spirit on our party Without a heart to dare or sword to draw When Helen is defended; nor none so noble Whose life were ill bestow’d or death unfam’d Where Helen is the subject. Then, I say, Well may we fight for her whom we know well The world’s large spaces cannot parallel.