Cres. Now, my sweet guardian; hark, a word with you.[Whisper.
Troil. Ay, so familiar!
Diom. Will you remember?
Cres. Remember? yes.
Troil. Heavens, what should she remember! Plague and madness!
Ulys. Prince, you are moved: let us depart in time,
Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself
To wrathful terms: this place is dangerous;
The time unlit: beseech you, let us go.
Troil. I pray you stay; by hell, and by hell's torments, I will not speak a word.
Diom. I'll hear no more: good night.
Cres. Nay, but you part in anger!
Troil. Does that grieve thee? O withered truth!