Cres. My lord, I do beseech you pardon me;
'Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss.
I am ashamed;—O heavens, what have I done!
For this time let me take my leave, my lord.
Pand. Leave! an you take leave till to-morrow morning, call me Cut.
Cres. Pray, let me go.
Troil. Why, what offends you, madam?
Cres. My own company.
Troil. You cannot shun yourself.
Cres. Let me go try;
I have a kind of self resides in you.
Troil. Oh that I thought truth could be in a woman,
(As if it can, I will presume in you,)
That my integrity and faith might meet
The same return from her, who has my heart,
How should I be exalted! but, alas,
I am more plain than dull simplicity,
And artless as the infancy of truth!
Cres. In that I must not yield to you, my lord.
Troil. All constant lovers shall, in future ages,
Approve their truth by Troilus. When their verse
Wants similes,—as turtles to their mates,
Or true as flowing tides are to the moon,
Earth to the centre, iron to adamant,—
At last, when truth is tired with repetition,
As true as Troilus, shall crown up the verse,
And sanctify the numbers.