Troil. Now, Pandarus.
Pand. Now, my sweet prince! have you seen my niece? no, I know you have not.
Troil. No, Pandarus; I stalk about your doors.
Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks,
Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon,
290 And give me swift transportance to Elysium,
And fly with me to Cressida.
Pand. Walk here a moment more: I'll bring her strait.
Troil. I fear she will not come; most sure she will not.
Pand. How, not come, and I her uncle! why, I tell you, prince, she twitters at you. Ah poor sweet rogue! ah, little rogue, now does she think, and think, and think again of what must be betwixt you two. Oh sweet,—oh sweet—O—what, not come, and I her uncle?
Troil. Still thou flatter'st me; but pr'ythee flatter still; for I would hope; I would not wake out of my pleasing dream. Oh hope, how sweet thou art! but to hope always, and have no effect of what we hope!
Pand. Oh faint heart, faint heart! well, there's much good matter in these old proverbs! No, she'll not come, I warrant her; she has no blood of mine in her, not so much as will fill a flea. But if she does not come, and come, and come with a swing into your arms—I say no more, but she has renounced all grace, and there's an end.
Troil. I will believe thee: go then, but be sure.
Pand. No, you would not have me go; you are indifferent—shall I go, say you? speak the word then:—yet I care not: you may stand in your own light, and lose a sweet young lady's heart—well, I shall not go then.