fast, and wear a castle on thy head!
I'll bring you to the gates.
Accept distracted thanks.
Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would
croak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode.
Patroclus will give me any thing for the
intelligence of this whore: the parrot will not
do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab.
Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery; nothing
else holds fashion: a burning devil take them!
When was my lord so much ungently temper'd,
To stop his ears against admonishment?
Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day.
You train me to offend you; get you in:
By all the everlasting gods, I'll go!
My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.
No more, I say.
Where is my brother Hector?
Here, sister; arm'd, and bloody in intent.
Consort with me in loud and dear petition,
Pursue we him on knees; for I have dream'd
Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night
Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.
O, 'tis true.
Ho! bid my trumpet sound!
No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother.
Be gone, I say: the gods have heard me swear.
The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows:
They are polluted offerings, more abhorr'd
Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
O, be persuaded! do not count it holy
To hurt by being just: it is as lawful,
For we would give much, to use violent thefts,
And rob in the behalf of charity.
It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;
But vows to every purpose must not hold:
Unarm, sweet Hector.
Hold you still, I say;
Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate:
Lie every man holds dear; but the brave man
Holds honour far more precious-dear than life.
How now, young man! mean'st thou to fight to-day?
Cassandra, call my father to persuade.
No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth;
I am to-day i' the vein of chivalry:
Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong,
And tempt not yet the brushes of the war.
Unarm thee, go, and doubt thou not, brave boy,
I'll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy.
Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you,
Which better fits a lion than a man.
What vice is that, good Troilus? chide me for it.
When many times the captive Grecian falls,
Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,
You bid them rise, and live.
O,'tis