PANDARUS.
Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.
CRESSIDA.
To say the truth, true and not true.
PANDARUS.
She prais’d his complexion above Paris.
CRESSIDA.
Why, Paris hath colour enough.
PANDARUS.
So he has.
CRESSIDA.
Then Troilus should have too much. If she prais’d him above, his complexion is higher than his; he having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a good complexion. I had as lief Helen’s golden tongue had commended Troilus for a copper nose.
PANDARUS.
I swear to you I think Helen loves him better than Paris.
CRESSIDA.
Then she’s a merry Greek indeed.
PANDARUS.
Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th’other day into the compass’d window—and you know he has not past three or four hairs on his chin—
CRESSIDA.
Indeed a tapster’s arithmetic may soon bring his particulars therein to a total.