be thy guard,
I'll cut thy throat.
O, be not moved, Prince Troilus:
Let me be privileged by my place and message,
To be a speaker free; when I am hence
I'll answer to my lust: and know you, lord,
I'll nothing do on charge: to her own worth
She shall be prized; but that you say 'be't so,'
I'll speak it in my spirit and honour, 'no.'
Come, to the port. I'll tell thee, Diomed,
This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head.
Lady, give me your hand, and, as we walk,
To our own selves bend we our needful talk.
Hark! Hector's trumpet.
How have we spent this morning!
The prince must think me tardy and remiss,
That sore to ride before him to the field.
'Tis Troilus' fault: come, come, to field with him.
Let us make ready straight.
Yea, with a bridegroom's fresh alacrity,
Let us address to tend on Hector's heels:
The glory of our Troy doth this day lie
On his fair worth and single chivalry.
Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair,
Anticipating time with starting courage.
Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy,
Thou dreadful Ajax; that the appalled air
May pierce the head of the great combatant
And hale him hither.
Thou, trumpet, there's my purse.
Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe:
Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek
Outswell the colic of puff'd Aquilon:
Come, stretch thy chest and let thy eyes spout blood;
Thou blow'st for Hector.
No trumpet answers.
'Tis but early days.
Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas' daughter?
'Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait;
He rises on the toe: that spirit of his
In aspiration lifts him from the earth.
Is this the Lady Cressid?
Even she.
Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.
Our general doth salute you with a kiss.
Yet is the kindness but particular;
'Twere better she were kiss'd in general.
And very courtly counsel: I'll begin.
So much for Nestor.
I'll take what winter from your lips, fair lady:
Achilles bids you welcome.
I had good argument for kissing once.
But that's no argument for kissing now;
For this popp'd Paris in his hardiment,
And parted thus you and your argument.
O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns!
For which we lose our heads to gild his horns.
The first was Menelaus' kiss; this, mine:
Patroclus kisses you.
O, this is trim!
Paris and I kiss evermore