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