Pand. How, his own better! you have no judgment, niece; Helen herself swore, the other day, that Troilus, for a manly brown complexion,—for so it is, I must confess—not brown neither.
Cres. No, but very brown.
Pand. Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown. Come, I swear to you, I think Helen loves him better than Paris: nay, I'm sure she does. She comes me to him the other day, into the bow-window,—and you know Troilus has not above three or four hairs on his chin,—
Cres. That's but a bare commendation.
Pand. But to prove to you that Helen loves him, she comes, and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin.
Cres. Has he been fighting then? how came it cloven?
Pand. Why, you know it is dimpled. I cannot chuse but laugh, to think how she tickled his cloven 278 chin. She has a marvellous white hand, I must needs confess. But let that pass, for I know who has a whiter. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; think on it, think on it.
Cres. So I do, uncle.
Pand. I'll be sworn it is true; he will weep ye, an' it were a man born in April.[A retreat sounded.
Hark, they are returning from the field; shall we stay and see them as they come by, sweet niece? do, sweet niece Cressida.
Cres. For once you shall command me.