HECTOR.
What vice is that? Good Troilus, chide me for it.
TROILUS.
When many times the captive Grecian falls,
Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,
You bid them rise and live.
HECTOR.
O, ’tis fair play!
TROILUS.
Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector.
HECTOR.
How now? how now?
TROILUS.
For th’ love of all the gods,
Let’s leave the hermit Pity with our mother;
And when we have our armours buckled on,
The venom’d vengeance ride upon our swords,
Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth!
HECTOR.
Fie, savage, fie!
TROILUS.
Hector, then ’tis wars.
HECTOR.
Troilus, I would not have you fight today.
TROILUS.
Who should withhold me?
Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars
Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire;
Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,
Their eyes o’er-galled with recourse of tears;
Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,
Oppos’d to hinder me, should stop my way,
But by my ruin.