_Ther_. Now the pledge; now, now, now!
_Cre_. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
_Troy_. O beauty! where is thy faith?
_Vlyſ_. My lord!
_Troy_. I will be patient; outwardly I will.
_Cre_. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.
He lov’d me-O false wench!-Give’t me again.
_Diom_. Whose was’t?
_Cre_. It is no matter, now I ha’t again.
I will not meet with you to-morrow night.
I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.
_Ther_. Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone.
_Diom_. I shall have it.
_Cre_. What, this?
_Diom_. Ay, that.
_Cre_. O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!
Thy master now lies thinking on his bed
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
_Diom_. I had your heart before; this follows it.
_Troy_. I did swear patience.
_Cre_. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not;
I’ll give you something else.
_Diom_. I will have this. Whose was it?
_Cre_. It is no matter.
_Diom_. Come, tell me whose it was.
_Cre_. ’Twas one’s that lov’d me better than you will.
But, now you have it, take it.
_Diom_. Whose was it?
_Cre_. By all Diana’s waiting women yond,
And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
_Diom_. To-morrow will I wear it on my helm,
And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.
_Troy_. Wert thou the devil and wor’st it on thy horn,
It should be challeng’d.
_Cre_. Well, well, ’tis done, ’tis past; and yet it is not;
I will not keep my word.
_Diom_. Why, then farewell;
Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.
_Cre_. You shall not go. One cannot speak a word
But it straight starts you.
_Diom_. I do not like this fooling.
_Ther_. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you
Pleases me best.
_Diom_. What, shall I come? The hour-
_Cre_. Ay, come-O Jove! Do come. I shall be plagu’d.
_Diom_. Farewell till then.
_Cre_. Good night. I prithee come. Exit Diomedes
Troylus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee;
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind.
What error leads must err; O, then conclude,
Minds sway’d by eyes are full of turpitude.
Exit
_Ther_. A proof of strength she could not publish more,
Unless she said ‘My mind is now turn’d whore.’
_Vlyſ_. All’s done, my lord.
_Troy_. It is.
_Vlyſ_. Why stay we, then?
_Troy_. To make a recordation to my soul
Of every syllable that here was spoke.
But if I tell how these two did coact,
Shall I not lie in publishing a truth?
Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,
An esperance so obstinately strong,
That doth invert th’ attest of eyes and ears;
As if those organs had deceptious functions
Created only to calumniate.
Was Creſſid here?
_Vlyſ_. I cannot conjure, Troian.
_Troy_. She was not, sure.
_Vlyſ_. Most sure she was.
_Troy_. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.
_Vlyſ_. Nor mine, my lord. Creſſid was here but now.
_Troy_. Let it not be believ’d for womanhood.
Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage
To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme,
For depravation, to square the general sex
By Creſſid’s rule. Rather think this not Creſſid.
_Vlyſ_. What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers?
_Troy_. Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
_Ther_. Will ’a swagger himself out on’s own eyes?
_Troy_. This she? No; this is Diomed’s Creſſida.
If beauty have a soul, this is not she;
If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies,
If sanctimony be the god’s delight,
If there be rule in unity itself,
This was not she. O madness of discourse,
That cause sets up with and against itself!
Bifold authority! where reason can revolt
Without perdition, and loss assume all reason
Without revolt: this is, and is not, Creſſid.
Within my soul there doth conduce a fight
Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate
Divides more wider than the sky and earth;
And yet the spacious breadth of this division
Admits no orifex for a point as subtle
As Ariachne’s broken woof to enter.
Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto’s gates:
Creſſid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven.
Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself:
The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolv’d, and loos’d;
And with another knot, five-finger-tied,
The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,
The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics
Of her o’er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed.
_Vlyſ_. May worthy Troylus be half-attach’d
With that which here his passion doth express?
_Troy_. Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well
In characters as red as Mars his heart
Inflam’d with Venus. Never did young man fancy
With so eternal and so fix’d a soul.
Hark, Greek: as much as I do Creſſid love,
So much by weight hate I her Diomed.
That sleeve is mine that he’ll bear on his helm;
Were it a casque compos’d by Vulcan’s skill
My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout
Which shipmen do the hurricano call,
Constring’d in mass by the almighty sun,
Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear
In his descent than shall my prompted sword
Falling on Diomed.
_Ther_. He’ll tickle it for his concupy.
_Troy_. O Creſſid! O false Creſſid! false, false, false!
Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,
And they’ll seem glorious.
_Vlyſ_. O, contain yourself;
Your passion draws ears hither.