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.
HELEN.
Why, this is kindly done.
PANDARUS.
My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen.
HELEN.
She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris.