[Exit Pandarus. An alarum.]
TROILUS.
Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds!
Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,
When with your blood you daily paint her thus.
I cannot fight upon this argument;
It is too starv’d a subject for my sword.
But Pandarus, O gods! how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar;
And he’s as tetchy to be woo’d to woo
As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love,
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl;
Between our Ilium and where she resides
Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood;
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.
Alarum. Enter Aeneas.
AENEAS.
How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore not afield?
TROILUS.
Because not there. This woman’s answer sorts,
For womanish it is to be from thence.
What news, Aeneas, from the field today?
AENEAS.
That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
TROILUS.
By whom, Aeneas?
AENEAS.
Troilus, by Menelaus.
TROILUS.
Let Paris bleed: ’tis but a scar to scorn;
Paris is gor’d with Menelaus’ horn.
[Alarum.]