Friend, you—pray you, a word. Do you not follow the young Lord Paris?

Ay, sir, when he goes before me.

You depend upon him, I mean?

Sir, I do depend upon the Lord.

You depend upon a notable gentleman; I must needs praise him.

The Lord be praised!

You know me, do you not?

Faith, sir, superficially.

Friend, know me better: I am the Lord Pandarus.

I hope I shall know your honour better.

I do desire it.

You are in the state of grace?

Grace? Not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles. What music is

this?

I do but partly know, sir; it is music in parts.

Know you the musicians?

Wholly, sir.

Who play they to?

To the hearers, sir.

At whose pleasure, friend?

At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.

Command, I mean, friend.

Who shall I command, sir?

Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly, and thou art

too cunning. At whose request do these men play?

That’s to’t, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord,

who is there in person; with him the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of

beauty, love’s invisible soul—

Who, my cousin, Cressida?

No, sir, Helen. Could not you find out that by her attributes?

It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I

come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus; I will make a

complimental assault upon him, for my business seethes.

Sodden business! There’s a stew’d phrase indeed!

Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company! Fair desires, in

all fair measure, fairly guide them—especially to you, fair queen! Fair

thoughts be your fair pillow.

Dear lord, you are full of fair words.

You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good

broken music.

You have broke it, cousin; and by my life, you shall make it whole

again; you shall piece it out with a piece of your performance.

He is full of harmony.

Truly, lady, no.

O, sir—

Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude.

Well said, my lord. Well, you say so in fits.

I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you vouchsafe me

a word?

Nay, this shall not hedge us out. We’ll hear you sing, certainly—

Well sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry, thus, my lord:

my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus—

My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet lord—

Go to, sweet queen, go to—commends himself most affectionately to you—

You shall not bob us out of our melody. If you do, our melancholy upon

your head!

Sweet queen, sweet queen; that’s a sweet queen, i’ faith.

And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence.

Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall it not, in truth, la.

Nay, I care not for such words; no, no.—And, my lord, he desires you

that, if the King call for him at supper, you will make his excuse.

My Lord Pandarus!

What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen?

What exploit’s in hand? Where sups he tonight?

Nay, but, my lord—

What says my sweet queen?—My cousin will fall out with you.

You must not know where he sups.

I’ll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.

No, no, no such matter; you are wide. Come, your disposer is sick.

Well, I’ll make’s excuse.

Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida?

No, your poor disposer’s sick.

I spy.

You spy! What do you spy?—Come, give me an instrument. Now, sweet

queen.

Why, this is kindly done.

My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen.

She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris.

He? No, she’ll none of him; they two are twain.

Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.

Come, come. I’ll hear no more of this; I’ll sing you a song now.

Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a fine

forehead.

Ay, you may, you may.

Let thy song be love. This love will undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid,

Cupid!

Love! Ay, that it shall, i’ faith.

Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.

In good troth, it begins so.

_Love, love, nothing but love, still love, still more!

For, oh, love’s bow

Shoots buck and doe;

The shaft confounds

Not that it wounds,

But tickles still the sore.

These lovers cry, O ho, they die!

Yet that which seems the wound to kill

Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he!

So dying love lives still.

O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha!

O ho! groans out for ha! ha! ha!—hey ho!_

In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of the nose.

He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood, and hot

blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot

deeds is love.

Is this the generation of love: hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds?

Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s

a-field today?

Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy. I

would fain have arm’d today, but my Nell would not have it so. How

chance my brother Troilus went not?

He hangs the lip at something. You know all, Lord Pandarus.

Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they spend today. You’ll

remember your brother’s excuse?

To a hair.

Farewell, sweet queen.

Commend me to your niece.

I will, sweet queen.

They’re come from the field. Let us to Priam’s hall

To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you

To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn buckles,

With these your white enchanting fingers touch’d,

Shall more obey than to the edge of steel

Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more

Than all the island kings—disarm great Hector.

’Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris;

Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty

Gives us more palm in beauty than we have,

Yea, overshines ourself.

Sweet, above thought I love thee.