Cres. O heavens, you love me not!
Troil. Die I a villain then!
In this I do not call your faith in question,
But my own merit.
Cres. Fear not; I'll be true.
Troil. Then, fate, thy worst! for I will see thee, love;
Not all the Grecian host shall keep me out,
Nor Troy, though walled with fire, should hold me in.
Æneas. [Within.] My lord, my lord Troilus! I must call you.
Pand. A mischief call him! nothing but screech-owls? do, do, call again; you had best part them now in the sweetness of their love!—I'll be hanged if this Æneas be the son of Venus, for all his bragging. Honest Venus was a punk; would she have parted 326 lovers? no, he has not a drop of Venus' blood in him—honest Venus was a punk.
Troil. [To Pand.] Pr'ythee, go out, and gain one
minute more.
Pand. Marry and I will: follow you your business; lose no time, 'tis very precious; go, bill again: I'll tell the rogue his own, I warrant him.
[Exit Pandarus.
Cres. What have we gained by this one minute more?
Troil. Only to wish another, and another,
A longer struggling with the pangs of death.