to lie long As you, prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business Should rob my bed-mate of my company. That's my mind too. Good morrow, Lord AEneas. A valiant Greek, AEneas,--take his hand,-- Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told how Diomed, a whole week by days, Did haunt you in the field. Health to you, valiant sir, During all question of the gentle truce; But when I meet you arm'd, as black defiance As heart can think or courage execute. The one and other Diomed embraces. Our bloods are now in calm; and, so long, health! But when contention and occasion meet, By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life With all my force, pursuit and policy. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly With his face backward. In humane gentleness, Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises' life, Welcome, indeed! By Venus' hand I swear, No man alive can love in such a sort The thing he means to kill more excellently. We sympathize: Jove, let AEneas live, If to my sword his fate be not the glory, A thousand complete courses of the sun! But, in mine emulous honour, let him die, With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow! We know each other well. We do; and long to know each other worse. This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of. What business, lord, so early? I was sent for to the king; but why, I know not. His purpose meets you: 'twas to bring this Greek To Calchas' house, and there to render him, For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid: Let's have your company, or, if you please, Haste there before us: I constantly do think-- Or rather, call my thought a certain knowledge-- My brother Troilus lodges there to-night: Rouse him and give him note of our approach. With the whole quality wherefore: I fear We shall be much unwelcome. That I assure you: Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece Than Cressid borne from Troy. There is no help; The bitter disposition of the time Will have it so. On, lord; we'll follow you. Good morrow, all. And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell me true, Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship, Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen best, Myself or Menelaus? Both alike: He merits well to have her, that doth seek her, Not making any scruple of her soilure, With such a hell of pain