Another part of the plains.
(Aeneas; Paris; Antenor; Deiphobus; Troilus; Pandarus)
The Trojans too learn of Hector’s death. Enraged, Troilus swears revenge, Pandarus tries to speak to him, but Troilus pushes him aside as a pimp. Left alone, Pandarus tries to comfort himself, but merely ends up wishing his venereal diseases on the audience. (52 lines)
Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor, Deiphobus.
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!
Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!
Exeunt all but Pandarus.
A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world, world, world! Thus is the poor agent despis’d! O traders and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so lov’d and the performance so loath’d? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see:
Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing,
Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;
And being once subdu’d in armed tail,
Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.
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.