Par. You are too bitter to your countrywoman.
Dio. She's bitter to her country: hear me, Paris: 70
For every false drop in her bawdy veins
A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple
Of her contaminated carrion weight,
A Trojan hath been slain: since she could speak,
She hath not given so many good words breath 75
As for her Greeks and Trojans suffer'd death.
Par. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,
Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy:[1854]
But we in silence hold this virtue well,
We'll not commend what we intend to sell.[1855] 80
Here lies our way. [Exeunt.
Scene II. Court of Pandarus' house.[1856]
Enter Troilus and Cressida.
Tro. Dear, trouble not yourself: the morn is cold.
Cres. Then, sweet my lord, I'll call mine uncle down;[1857]
He shall unbolt the gates.
Tro. Trouble him not;
To bed, to bed: sleep kill those pretty eyes,[1858]
And give as soft attachment to thy senses 5
As infants' empty of all thought![1859]
Cres. Good morrow, then.
Tro. I prithee now, to bed.