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IN Troy, there lyes the Scene: From Isles of Greece
The Princes Orgillous, their high Blood chaf'd,
Have to the Port of Athens fent their Ships,
Fraught with the Minifters and Inftruments
Of Cruel War: Sixty and nine that wore
Their Crownets Regal, from th' Athenian Bay
Put forth toward Phrygia, and their Vow is made
To ranfack Troy, within whofe ftrong Immures,
The ravif'd Helen, Menelaus Queen,

With wanton Paris fleeps, and that's the Quarrel.
To Tenedos they come,

And the deep-drawing Barks do there difgorge
Their warlike Fraughtage: Now on Dardan Plains,
The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks, do pitch
Their brave Pavillions. Priam's fix-gated City,
Dardan, and Timbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien,
And Antenonidus, with maffy Staples,
And correfponfive and fulfilling Bolts,
Stir up the Sons of Troy.

Now Expectation tickling skittish Spirits,
On one and other fide, Trojan and Greek,
Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come
A Prologue arm'd, but not in confidence
Of Author's Pen, or Actor's Voice; but fuited
In like Conditions, as our Argument;
To tell you (fair Beholders) that our Play
Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of thofe Broils,
Beginning in the middle starting thence away,
To what may be digested in a Play:

Like, or find fault, do as your Pleasures are,
Now good, or bad, 'tis but the chance of War.

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Helen, Wife to Menelaus, in Love with Paris.
Andromache, Wife to Hector.

Creffida, Daughter to Calchas, in Love with


Trojan and Greek Soldiers, with other Attendants.

SCENE Troy and the Grecian Camp.

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ALL here my Varlet, I'll unarm again.
Why should I war without the Wails of

That find fuch cruel Battel here within?

Each Trojan that is Master of his Heart,

Let him to Field, Troilus alas hath none.

Pan. Will this Geer ne'er be mended?

Troi. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength,
Fierce to their skill, and to their fiercenefs valiant:

But I am weaker than a Woman's Tear,
Tamer than Sleep, fonder than Ignorance;
Lefs valiant than the Virgin in the Night,
And skillefs as unpractis'd Infancy.

T 3


Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this : For my Part, I'll not meddle nor make any farther. He that will have a Cake out of the Wheat, muft needs tarry the Grinding.

Troi. Have I not tarried?

Pan. Ay, the Grinding; but you must
Troi. Have I not tarried?

tarry the Boulting.

Pan. Ay, the Boulting; but you must tarry the Leav'ning. Troi. Still have I tarried.

Pan. Ay, to the Leav'ning: but here's yet in the word hereafter, the Kneading, the making of the Cake, the Heating of the Oven, and the Baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your Lips.

Troi. Patience her felf, what Goddefs e'er fhe be,
Doth leffer blench at Sufferance, than I do :
At Priam's Royal Table I do fit;

And when fair Creffid comes into my Thoughts,

So, Traitor!When he comes, when he is thence
Pan. Well,

She look'd yesternight fairer than ever I faw her look,
Or any Woman else.

Trei. I was about to tell thee, when my Heart,
As wedged with a figh, would rive in twain,
Left Hector, or my Father fhould perceive me,
I have (as when the Sun doth light a Storm)
Buried this figh, in wrinkle of a fmile:

But Sorrow, that is couch'd in feeming Gladness,
Is like that Mirth Fate turns to fudden Sadness.

Pan. And her Hair were not fomewhat darker than Helen's well-go to, there were no more Comparison between the Women. But for my part fhe is my Kinswoman, I would not (as they term it) praise it—but I would fome Body had heard her talk yesterday, as I did: I will not difpraise your Sifter Caffandra's Wit, but

Troi. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus.
When I do tell thee, there my Hopes lye drown'd,
Reply not in how many Fathoms deep

They lye intrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad
In Creffid's Love. Thou anfwer'ft, fhe is Fair,
Pour'ft in the open Ulcer of my Heart,

Her Eyes, her Hair, her Cheek, her Gate, her Voice,


Handleft in thy Discourse—O that! her Hand ! ------
(In whose Comparifon, all Whites are Ink

Writing their own Reproach) to whofe foft feizure
The Cignets Down is harth, and Spirit of Senfe
Hard as the Palm of Ploughman. This thou tell'it me;
As true thou tell'ft me; when I fay I love her :
But faying thus, inftead of Oil and Balm,

Thou lay'ft in every gafh that Love hath given me,
The Knife that made it.

Pan. I fpeek no more than Truth. Troi. Thou doft not fpeak fo mich. Pan. 'Faith, I'll not meddle in't. if the be fair, 'tis the better for her; has the mends in her own hands.

Let her be as fhe is,

and the be not, fhe

Troi. Good Pandarus; how now, Pandarus?

Pan. I have had my labour for my travel, ill thought on of her, and ill thought on of you: Gone between and be tween, but fmall thanks for my labour.

Troi. What art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me? Pan. Because he is Kin to me, therefore fhe's not so fair as Helen; and he were not Kin to me, fhe would be as fair on Friday, as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not and the were a Black-a-More, 'tis all one to me,

Troi. Say I, he is not fair?

Pan. I do not care whether you do or no.

She's a Fool to ftay behind her Father: Let her to the Greeks, and fo I'll tell her the next time I fee her : for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more i'th' matter,

Troi. Pandarus

Pan. Not I.

Troi. Sweet Pandarus

Pan. Pray you speak no more to me, I will leave all as I found it, and there's an end.

[Exit Pandarus. [Sound Alarum,

Troi. Peace, you ungracious Clamours, peace rude Sounds, Fool, on both fides, Helen muft needs be fair,

When with your Blood you daily paint her thus.

I cannot fight upon this Argument,

It is too ftarv'd a Subject for my Sword:

But Pandarus-O Gods! how do you plague me! cannot come to Creffid, but by Pandarus,

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