Diom. Farewell, cozener.
Cres. Indeed I am not: pray, come back again.
Ulys. You shake, my lord, at something: will you go?
You will break out.
Troil. By all the gods I will not.
There is, between my will and all my actions,
A guard of patience: stay a little while.
Thers. [aside.] How the devil luxury, with his fat rump, and potato-finger, tickles these together!—Put him off a little, you foolish harlot! 'twill sharpen him the more.
Diom. But will you then?
338 Cres. I will, as soon as e'er the war's concluded.
Diom Give me some token, for the surety of it;
The ring I saw you wear.
Cres. [Giving it.] If you must have it.
Troil. The ring? nay, then, 'tis plain! O beauty, where's thy faith!