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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 whofe comparifon, all whites are ink

Writing their own reproach) to whose soft seizure
The cignet's down is harfh, and spirit of sense

Hard as the palm of ploughman. This thou tell'ft me;
(As, true thou tell'ft me ;) when I fay, I love her:
But faying thus, instead of oil and balm,

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

Pan. I fpeak no more than truth.

Troi. Thou doft not speak fo much.

Pan. 'Faith, I'll not meddle in't. Let her be as the is, if fhe be fair, 'tis the better for her; an fhe be not, fhe has the mends in her own hands.

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 between, but fmall thanks for my labour.

Troi. What art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me? Pan. Because she is kin to me, therefore he's not fo fair as Helen; an fhe were not kin to me, fhe would be as fair on Friday, as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not, an fhe were a black-a-moor; 'tis all one

to me.

Troi. Say I, fhe 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, fpeak 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

founds!

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Fools 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 fubject for my fword:

But Pandarus-O Gods! how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Creffid, but by Pandar;
And he's as teachy to be woo'd to wooe,
As she is stubborn-chaft against all fute.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,
What Crefid is, what Pandar, and what we:
Her bed is India, there fhe lyes, a pearl;
Between our Ilium, and where the refides,
Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood;
Our felf the merchant, and this failing Pandar,
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.
Enter Æneas.

[Alarum.]

Ene. How now Prince Troilus? wherefore not i'th'

field?

Troi. Because not there; this woman's answer forts,

For womanish it is to be from thence:

What news, Æneas, from the field to day?

Ene. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.

Troi. By whom, Eneas?

Ene. Troilus, by Menelaus.

Troi. Let Paris bleed, 'tis but a fcar to fcorn;

Paris is gor'd with Menelaus' horn.

[Alarum. Ene. Hark, what good fport is out of town to day? Troi. Better at home, if would I might, were may -are you bound thither?

But to the sport abroad

Ene. In all fwift hafte.

Troi. Come, go we then together.

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE changes to a publick Street, near the Walls of Troy.

Enter Creffida, and Alexander, her Servant.

Cre. HO were those went by?

WHO

Ser. Queen Hecuba and Helen.

Cre. And whither go they?

Ser. Up to th' eastern tower,

Whofe height commands as fubject all the vale,
To fee the fight. Hector, whofe patience
Is, as the Virtue, fix'd, to day was mov'd: (5)
He chid Andromache, and ftruck his armorer;
And like as there were husbandry in war,
Before the Sun rofe, he was harness-dight, (6)
And to the field goes he; where ev'ry flower
Did as a prophet weep what it forefaw,
In Hector's wrath,

(5)

whofe Patience

Is as a Virtue fix'd,] What's the Meaning of Hector's Patience being fix'd as a Virtue? Is not Patience a Virtue? What Room then for the Similitude? The Poet certainly wrote, as I have conjecturally reform'd the Text; and this is giving a fine Character of it, to fay, His Patience is as fedfaft as the Virtue of Patience itself; or the Goddess fo call'd : for the Poets have always perfonaliz'd the Quality. So we find Troilus a little before faying;

Patience herself, what Goddess ere fhe be,
Doth leffer blench at Sufferance than I do.

Mr. Warburton. (6) Before the Sun rofe, he was harneft light,] Why, harnest light? Does the Poet mean, that Hector had put on light Armour? Or that he was fprightly in his Arms, even before Sun-rife? Or is a Conundrum aim'd at, in Sun rofe, and harnest light? A very flight Alteration makes all these Constructions unneceffary, and gives us the Poet's Meaning in the propereft Terms imaginable.

Before the Sun rofe, he was harnefs-dight,

i. e. compleatly dreft, accoutred, in Arms.

It is frequent with our Poet, from his Mafters Chaucer and Spenfer, to say dight for deck'd; pight, for pitch'd; &c. and from them too he ufes Harness for Armour, So, again, in Macbeth ;

-blow, Wind! come, Wrack!

-

At leaf we'll die with Harness on our Back.

Cre.

Cre. What was his caufe of anger?

Ser. The noife goes thus; There is among the Greeks A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector,

They call him Ajax.

Cre. Good; and what of him?

Ser. They fay, he is a very man per fe, and ftands alone.

Cre. So do all men, unless they are drunk, fick, or have no legs.

Ser. This man, lady, hath robb'd many beafts of their particular additions; he is as valiant as the lyon, churlish as the bear, flow as the elephant; a man into whom Nature hath fo crouded humours, that his valour is crusht into folly, his folly fauced with discretion: there is no man hath a virtue, that he hath not a glimpse of; nor any man an attaint, but he carries fome ftain of it. He is melancholy without caufe, and merry against the hair ; he hath the joints of every thing, but every thing fo out of joint, that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no ufe; or purblind Argus, all eyes and no fight.

Cre. But how fhould this man, that makes me fmile, make Hector angry?

Ser. They fay, he yesterday cop'd Hector in the battle and ftruck him down, the difdain and fhame whereof hath ever fince kept Hector fafting and waking.

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Cre. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.

Pan. Good morrow, coufin Creffid; what do you talk of? (7) Good morrow, Alexander ;-how do you, coufin? when were you at Ilium?

Cre.

(7) Good morrow, coufin Creffid; What do you talk of? Good morrow, ALEXANDER ;- How do you, coufin ?] Good morrow, Alexanderis added in all the Editions, fays Mr. Pope, very abfurdly, Paris not

Cre. This morning, uncle.

Pan. What were you talking of, when I came? was Hector arm'd and gone, ere ye came to Ilium? Helen was not up? was fhe?

Cre. Hector was gone; but Helen was not up.

Pan. E'en fo; Hector was ftirring early.

Cre. That were we talking of, and of his anger.
Pan. Was he angry?

Cre. So he fays, here.

Pan. True, he was fo; I know the cause too: he'll lay about him to day, I can tell them That; and there's Troilus will not come far behind him, let them take heed of Troilus; I can tell them That too.

Cre. What is he angry too?

Pan. Who, Troilus ?- Troilus is the better man of the two.

Cre. Oh, Jupiter! there's no comparison.

Pan. What, not between Troilus and Hector? do you know a man, if you fee him?

Cre. Ay, if I ever faw him before, and knew him.
Pan. Well, I fay, Troilus is Troilus.

Cre. Then you fay, as I fay; for, I am fure, he is not Heltor.

Pan. No, nor Hector is not Troilus, in some degrees. Cre. 'Tis juft to each of them, he is himself.

Pan. Himfelf? alas, poor Troilus! I would he were. Cre. So he is.

Pan. 'Condition, I had gone bare-foot to India.

being on the Stage.Wonderful Acuteness! But, with Submiffion, this Gentleman's Note is much more abfurd: for it falls out very unluckily for his Remark, that tho Paris is, for the Generality, in Homer call'd Alexander; yet, in this Play, by any one of the Characters introduc'd, he is call'd nothing but Paris. The Truth of the Fact is this. Pandarus is of a bufy, impertinent, infinuating Character; and 'tis natural for him, fo foon as he has given his Coufin the good Morrow, to pay his Civilities too to her Attendant. This is purely ves, as the Grammarians call it; and gives us an admirable Touch of Pandarus's Character. And why might not Alexander be the Name of Creffid's Man? Paris had no Patent, I fuppofe, for engroffing it to himself. But the late Editor, perhaps, because we have had Alexander the Great, Pope Alexander, and Alexander Pope, would not have so eminent a Name prostituted to a common Valet.

Cre.

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