PARIS.
What exploit’s in hand? Where sups he tonight?
HELEN.
Nay, but, my lord—
PANDARUS.
What says my sweet queen?—My cousin will fall out with you.
HELEN.
You must not know where he sups.
PARIS.
I’ll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.
PANDARUS.
No, no, no such matter; you are wide. Come, your disposer is sick.
PARIS.
Well, I’ll make’s excuse.
PANDARUS.
Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida?
No, your poor disposer’s sick.
PARIS.
I spy.
PANDARUS.
You spy! What do you spy?—Come, give me an instrument. Now, sweet queen.