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N Troy, there lyes the feene: from ifles of Greece The princes orgillows, their high blood chaf'd, Have to the port of Athens fent their hips, Fraught with the minifters and inftruments Of cruel war. Sixty and nine, that wore Their crownets regal, from th' Athenian bay Put forth toward Phrygia, and their vow is made To ranfack Troy; within whofe ftrong immures, A The ravish'd Helen, Menelaus' Queen,

With wanton Paris fleeps; and that's the quarrel. To Tenedos they come

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And the deep-drawing barks do there difgorge
Their warlike fraughtage. Now on Dardan plains,
The fresh, and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch
Their brave pavilions. Priam's fix gates i' th' city,
Dardan, and Thymbria, Ilia, Scæa, Troian,
And Antenorides, with maffy staples
And correfponfive and fulfilling bolts,
Sperre up the fons of Troy.

Now expectation tickling skittish spirits
On one and other fide, Trojan and Greek,
Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come
A prologue arm'd †, but not in confidence
Of author's pen, or actor's voice; but fuited

• To fpere, or Spar, from the old Teutonic word, Sperren) fignifies to shut up, defend by barrs, &c. Theobald. † A prologue arm'd,—] come here to speak the prologue, and come in armour; not defying the audience, in confidence of either the author's or actor's abilities, but merely in a character fuited to the fubject, in a drefs of war, before a warlike play. Johnfen

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In like conditions as our argument;!
To tell you, fair beholders, that our play-
Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of these broils
'Ginning th-middle: ftarting thence aways
To what may be digested in a play.

Like, or find fault, do as your pleasures are;
Now good or bad, 'tis but the chance of ware-

AC TI

C

SCENE L.

The Palace in Troy.

Enter Pandarus and Troilus.

Troilus.

ALL here may varlet. I'll unarm again. Why fhould I war without the walls of Troy, That find fuch cruel battle here within? Each Trojan, that is mafter of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alás! hath none, Pan. Will this geer ne'er be mended?

Troi. The Greeks are strong, and fkilful to their ftrength,

Fierce to their skill, and to their fiercenefs valiant :
But I am weaker than a woman's tear,
Tamer than fleep, fonder than ignorance;
Lefs valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skill-lefs as unpractis'd infancy.

Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this. For my part, I'll not middle nor make any further. He that will have a cake out of the wheat, muft needs tarry the grinding

Troi. Have I not tarried?

Pun. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the boulting.

Troi. Have I not tarried?

Pan. Ay, the boulting; but you muft tarry leav'ning.

the

The story was originally written by Lollius, an old Lombard author, and fince by Chaucer Pope.

It is alfo found in an old story book of the three deAtructions of Troy, from which many of the circumRances of this play are borrowed, they being to be found no where effe. Tbeobald.

Trai. Still have I tarried.

Pan. Ay, to the leav'ning; but here's yet in the word hereafter, the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must ftay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips.

Troi. Patience herself, what goddefs ere fhe be,
Doth leffer blench at fufferance than I do..
At Priam's royal table do I fit,

And when fair Creffid comes into my thoughts,
So,t raitor !-when he comes! When is fhe thence?
Pan. Well, fhe look'd yefternight fairer than ever
I faw her look, or any woman elfe.

Troi. I was about to tell thee, when my heart,
As wedged with a figh, would rive in twain,
Left Hector or my father fhould perceive me
I have, as when the fun doth light a ftorm,
Buried this figh in wrinkle of a imile;

But forrow, that is couch'd in feeming gladnefs,
Is like that mirth fate turns to fudden fadness,

Pan. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's-well, go to, there were no more comparifon between the women.-But, for my part, fhe is my kinfwoman; I would not, as they term it praise her But I would, fomebody had heard her talk yefterday, as I did. I will not difpraise your filter Caffandra's wit, but

Troi. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus! When I do tell thee, there my hopes ly drown'd, Reply not in how many fathoms deep

They ly indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad
In Creffid's love Thou anfwer'ft, fhe is fair;
Pour'ft in the open ulcer of my heart

Her eyes, her hair; her cheek, her gait, her voice,
Handleft in thy difcourfe- -O that! her hand!
In whofe comparison, all whites are ink

Writing their own reproach; to whofe foft feizure The cignet's down is harfh, and spirit of sense

• Spirit of fenfes that is, the most refined quinteffence of fenfe, the most delicate touch of it, was. in compari fon of Creffid's hand, as hard as the palm of the plough man. Revifal.

Hard as the palm of ploughman. This thou tell'ft me 'As true thou tell'ft me, when I fay, I love her; But faying thus, inftead of oil and balm,

Thou lay'ft, in every galh that love hath given me, The knife that made it.

Pan I fpeak no more than truth.

Troi. Thou dost not speak so much.

Pan. 'Faith, I'll not meddle in't. Let her be as fhe is: if the be fair, 'tis the better for her; an fhe be not, fhe has the mends in her own hands +. Troi. Good Pandarus; how now, Pandarus?

Pan. I have had my labour for my travel; ill. thought on of her, and ill thought on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my la bour.

Troi. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me?

Pan. Because fhe is kin to me, therefore she's not fo fair as Helen; and the were not kin to me, fhe would be as fair on Friday, as Helen is on Saturday, But what care I? I care not, an the were a blacka-moor; 'tis all one to me.

Troi. Say I, fhe is not fair?

Pan. I do not care whether you do orno, fhe's a fool to ftay behind her father. Let her to the Greeks.1 And fo I'll tell her the next time I fee her. For my part, I'll meddle nor make no more i' th' matter. Troi. Pandarus

Pan. Not I.

Troi. Sweet Pandarus

Pan. Pray you, fpeak no more to me. I will leave all as I found it, and there's an end. [Exit Pand.. [Sound alarm. Troi. Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace,

rude founds!

Fools on both fides.- -Helen must needs be fair
When with your blood you daily paint her thus.
I cannot fight upon this argument,.

It is too ftarv'd a fubject for my fword.

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She may mend her complexion by the affiftance of eofmeticks. Johnson..

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