AGAMEMNON.
How?
AENEAS.
Ay;
I ask, that I might waken reverence,
And bid the cheek be ready with a blush
Modest as morning when she coldly eyes
The youthful Phoebus.
Which is that god in office, guiding men?
Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon?
AGAMEMNON.
This Trojan scorns us, or the men of Troy
Are ceremonious courtiers.
AENEAS.
Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm’d,
As bending angels; that’s their fame in peace.
But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls,
Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove’s accord,
Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Aeneas,
Peace, Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips.
The worthiness of praise distains his worth,
If that the prais’d himself bring the praise forth;
But what the repining enemy commends,
That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends.
AGAMEMNON.
Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Aeneas?
AENEAS.
Ay, Greek, that is my name.
AGAMEMNON.
What’s your affairs, I pray you?
AENEAS.
Sir, pardon; ’tis for Agamemnon’s ears.
AGAMEMNON
He hears naught privately that comes from Troy.
AENEAS.
Nor I from Troy come not to whisper with him;
I bring a trumpet to awake his ear,
To set his sense on the attentive bent,
And then to speak.