Act V. Scene
X.
Scene X.—Another Part of the Plains.
Enter ÆNEAS and Trojans.
Æne. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the
field.
Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Enter TROILUS.
Tro. Hector is slain.
All. Hector! the gods forbid!
Tro. 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!
Æne. My lord, you do discomfort all the
host.
Tro. 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-
sized 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.
[Exeunt ÆNEAS and Trojan Forces.
As TROILUS is going out, enter, from the other
side, PANDARUS.
Pan. But hear you, hear you!
Tro. Hence, broker lackey! ignomy and
shame
Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!
[Exit.
Pan. A goodly medicine for my aching bones!
O world! world! world! thus is the poor agent
despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly
are you set a-work, and how ill requited! why
should our endeavour be so loved, and the per-
formance so loathed? 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 paint-
ed cloths.
As many as be here of pander'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.
[Exit.
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