_Troy_. Dear, trouble not yourself; the morn is cold.
_Cre_. Then, sweet my lord, I’ll call mine uncle down;
He shall unbolt the gates.
_Troy_. Trouble him not;
To bed, to bed! Sleep kill those pretty eyes,
And give as soft attachment to thy senses
As infants’ empty of all thought!
_Cre_. Good morrow, then.
_Troy_. I prithee now, to bed.
_Cre_. Are you aweary of me?
_Troy_. O Creſſida! but that the busy day,
Wak’d by the lark, hath rous’d the ribald crows,
And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,
I would not from thee.
_Cre_. Night hath been too brief.
_Troy_. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays
As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love
With wings more momentary-swift than thought.
You will catch cold, and curse me.
_Cre_. Prithee tarry.
You men will never tarry.
O foolish Creſſid! I might have still held off,
And then you would have tarried. Hark! there’s one up.
_Pan_. [Within] What’s all the doors open here?
_Troy_. It is your uncle.