Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.

Never go home; here starve we out the night.

Hector is slain.

Hector! The gods forbid!

He’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail,

In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field.

Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed.

Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy.

I say at once let your brief plagues be mercy,

And linger not our sure destructions on.

My lord, you do discomfort all the host.

You understand me not that tell me so.

I do not speak of flight, of fear of death,

But dare all imminence that gods and men

Address their dangers in. Hector is gone.

Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?

Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d

Go in to Troy, and say there ‘Hector’s dead.’

There is a word will Priam turn to stone;

Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,

Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word,

Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away;

Hector is dead; there is no more to say.

Stay yet. You vile abominable tents,

Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,

Let Titan rise as early as he dare,

I’ll through and through you. And, thou great-siz’d coward,

No space of earth shall sunder our two hates;

I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,

That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts.

Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go;

Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.

But hear you, hear you!

Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame

Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!

A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! Thus is the poor

agent despis’d! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work,

and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so lov’d, and the

performance so loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me

see—

Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths.

As many as be here of Pandar’s hall,

Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall;

Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,

Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.

Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,

Some two months hence my will shall here be made.

It should be now, but that my fear is this,

Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.

Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases,

And at that time bequeath you my diseases.