Ulys. All's done, my lord.
Troil Is it?
Ulys. Pray let us go.
Troil. Was Cressida here?
Ulys. I cannot conjure, Trojan.
Troil. She was not, sure! she was not;
Let it not be believed, for womanhood:
Think we had mothers, do not give advantage
To biting satire, apt without a theme
For defamation, to square all the sex
By Cressid's rule; rather think this not Cressida.
339 Thers. Will he swagger himself out on's own eyes?
Troil. This she! no, this was Diomede's Cressida.
If beauty have a soul, this is not she:—
I cannot speak for rage;—that ring was mine:—
By heaven I gave it, in that point of time,
When both our joys were fullest!—If he keeps it,
Let dogs eat Troilus.
Thers. He'll tickle it for his concupy: this will be sport to see! Patroclus will give me any thing for the intelligence of this whore; a parrot will not do more for an almond, than he will for a commodious drab:—I would I could meet with this rogue Diomede too: I would croak like a raven to him; I would bode: it shall go hard but I'll find him out.
[Exit Thersites.
Enter Æneas.