_Troy_. How now! What’s the matter?
_Æne_. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,
My matter is so rash. There is at hand
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,
The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor
Deliver’d to us; and for him forthwith,
Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,
We must give up to Diomedes’ hand
The Lady Creſſida.
_Troy_. Is it so concluded?
_Æne_. By Priam, and the general state of Troy.
They are at hand and ready to effect it.
_Troy_. How my achievements mock me!
I will go meet them; and, my lord Æneas,
We met by chance; you did not find me here.
_Æne_. Good, good, my lord, the secrets of neighbour Pandar
Have not more gift in taciturnity.
Exeunt Troylus and Æneas
_Pan_. Is’t possible? No sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor!
The young prince will go mad. A plague upon Antenor! I would they had
broke’s neck.