CRESSIDA.
It is no matter, now I have’t again.
I will not meet with you tomorrow night.
I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.
THERSITES.
Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone.
DIOMEDES.
I shall have it.
CRESSIDA.
What, this?
DIOMEDES.
Ay, that.
CRESSIDA.
O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!
Thy master now lies thinking on his bed
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
DIOMEDES.
I had your heart before; this follows it.
TROILUS.
I did swear patience.
CRESSIDA.
You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not;
I’ll give you something else.
DIOMEDES.
I will have this. Whose was it?