Cres. O, the gods! What's the matter?
Pand. Pr'ythee get thee in; would thou hadst never been born!
I knew thou wouldst be his death; oh, poor gentleman!
A plague upon Antenor!
Cres. Good uncle, I beseech you on my knees, tell me what's the matter?
Pand. Thou must be gone, girl; thou must be gone, to the fugitive rogue-priest, thy father: (and he's my brother too; but that's all one at this time:) A pox upon Antenor!
Cres. O, ye immortal gods! I will not go.
Pand. Thou must, thou must.
Cres. I will not: I have quite forgot my father.
324 I have no touch of birth, no spark of nature,
No kin, no blood, no life; nothing so near me,
As my dear Troilus!
Enter Troilus.
Pand. Here, here, here he comes, sweet duck!
Cres. O, Troilus, Troilus! [They both weep over each other; she running into his arms.