TRAGEDIES.

IN

The Prologue.

N Troy there lyes the Scene: From Iles of Greec The Princes Orgillous, their high blood chaf'a Have 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 maae To ransacke Troy, within whose strong emures The ravish'd Helen, Menelaus Queene,

With wanton Paris sleepes, and that's the Quarrel
To Tenedos they come,

And the deepe-drawing Barke do there disgorge
Their warlike frautage: now on Dardan Plaine
The fresh and yet unbruised Greekes do pitch
Their brave Pavillions. Priams six-gated City,
Dardan and Timbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien,
And Antenonidus with massie Staples
And corresponsive and fulfilling Bolts
Stirre up the Sonnes of Troy.

Now Expectation tickling skittish spirits,
On one and other side, Trojan and Greeke,
Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come,
A Prologue arm'd, but not in confidence
Of Authors pen, or Alors 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.

THE TRAGEDIE OF

Troylus and Cressida.

Actus Primus. Scana Prima.

Enter Pandarus and Troy!us.

Troylus.

All here my Varlet, Ile unarme againe.

Why should I warre without the wals of Troy

That finde such cruell battell here within?

Each Trojan 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, & skilful to their strength,
Fierce to their skill, and to their fiercenesse Valiant :
But I am weaker than a womans teare;

Tamer then sleepe, fonder then ignorance;

Lesse valiant then the Virgin in the night,

And skillesse as unpractis'd Infancie.

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

Troy. Have I not tarried?

Pan. I the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
Troy. Have I not tarried?

Pan, I the boulting; but you must tarry the leav'ing.
Troy. Still have I tarried.

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

Troy. Patience her selfe, 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 ever I saw her looke,
Or any woman else.

Troy. I was about to tell thee, when my heart,
As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twaine,
Least Hedor, or my Father should perceive me :
I have (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 than 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 talke 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 love. Thou answer'st she is Faire,

Powr'st in the open Ulcer 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,