The bitter difpofition of the time Will have it fo. On, lord, we'll follow you. Ene. Good morrow all. [Exit. Par. And tell me, noble Diomede; tell me true, Ev'n in the foul of good found fellowship, Dio. Both alike. And He merits well to have her, that doth feek her, Par. You are too bitter to your Country-woman. A Grecian's life hath funk; for every fcruple A Trojan hath been flain. Since the could speak, Trei. [Exeunt. SCENE changes to Pandarus's House. DEA Enter Troilus and Creffida. EAR, trouble not your felf; the morn is cold. Cre. Then, fweet my lord, I'll call my uncle He fhalt unbolt the gates... [down: Troi. Trouble him not To bed, to bed fleep feal thofe pretty eyes, And give as foft attachment to thy fenfes, As infants empty of all thought! Cre. Good morrow then. Troi. I pr'ythee now, to bed. Cre. Are you a weary of me? Troi. O Crefida! but that the bufie day, Wak'd by the lark, has rous'd the ribald crows, And dreaming night will hide our joy's no longer, I would not from thee. Cre. Night hath been too brief. Troi. Befhrew the witch! with venomous wights fhe stays, Tedious as hell; but flies the grafps of love, With wings more momentary-fwift than thought: Cre. Pr'ythee, tarry-you men will never tarry- Enter Pandarus. Cre. A peftilence on him! now will he be mocking; I fhall have fuch a life Pan. How now, how now? how go maiden-heads? Hear you, maid; where's my cousin Creffida? Cre. Go hang your felf, you naughty mocking uncle: You bring me to da- and then you flout me too. Pan. To do what? to do what? let her fay, what: What have I brought you to do? Cre. Come, come, befhrew your heart; you'll never be good; nor fuffer others. Pan. Ha, ha! alas, poor wretch; a poor Capocchia,(18) haft not flept to night? would he not (a naughty man) (18) A poor Chipochia,] This Word, I am afraid, has fuffer'd under the Ignorance of the Editors, for it is a Word in no living Language that I can find. Pandarus fays it to his man) let it fleep? a bugbear take him! [Ong knocks. Cre. Did not I tell you?'would, he were knock'd oth' head! -who's that at door?. -good uncle, go and fee! My lord, come you again into my chamber; -you smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily. Troi. Ha, ha Cre. Come, you are deceived, I think of no fuch thing. How earnestly they knock-pray you, come in [Knock. I would not for half Troy have you seen here. [Exe. Pan. Who's there? what's the matter? will you beat down the door; how now? what's the matter? Enter Eneas.. Ene. Good morrow, lord, good morrow. Pan. Who's there? my lord Æneas? by my troth, I knew you not; what news with you fo early? Ene. Is not Prince Troilus here? Pan. Here! what fhould he do here? Ene. Come, he is here, my lord, do not deny him. It doth import him much to speak with me. Pan. Is he here, fay you ? 'tis more than I know, I'll be fworn; for my own part, I came in late: what fhould he do here? Ene. Pho!nay, then :- -come, come, you'll do him wrong, ere y'are aware: you'll be fo true to him, to be falfe to him: do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither, go. [As Pandarus is going out, Enter Troilus. Troi. How now? what's the matter? Ene. My lord, I fcarce have leisure to falute you, My matter is fo rafh: there is at hand Paris your brother, and Deiphobu, Neice, in a jeering Sort of Tenderness, upon her having made wanton the Night with Troilus, as our Author expreffes it in his Othello. He would fay, I think, in English- -Poor Innocent! Poor Fool! haft not slept to Night? Thefe Appellations are very well anfwer'd by the Italian Word Capocchio: for Capocchio fignifies the thick Head of a Club; and thence metaphorically, a Head of not much Brain, a Sot, Dullard, heavy Gull. The The Grecian Diomede, and our Antenor Troi. Is it concluded fo? Ene. By Priam, and the general State of Troy. They are at hand, and ready to effect it. ·Troi. How my atchievements mock me! Ene. Good, good, my lord; the fecret'st things of Have not more gift in taciturnity. Enter Creffida to Pandarus. [Exeunt. Pan. Is't poffible? no fooner got, but loft: the Devil take Antenor the young Prince will go mad: a plague upon Antenor! I would, they had broke's neck. Cre. How now? what's the matter? who was here? Cre. Why figh you fo profoundly? where's my lord? gone! tell me, fweet uncle, what's the matter? Pan. 'Would, I were as deep under the earth, as I am above! Cre. O the Gods! what's the matter? Pan. Pr'ythee, get thee in; 'would, thou hadst ne'er been born: I knew, thou would'st be his death. O poor (19). -The Secrets of Nature Have not more Gift in Taciturnity.] This is the Reading of both the Elder Folio's: but the first Verse manifestly halts, and betrays its being defective. Mr. Pope substitutes The Secrets of Neighbour Pandar. If This be a Reading ex fide Codicum (as he profeffes all his various Readings to be) it is founded on the Credit of fuch Copies, as it has not been my Fortune to meet with. I have ventur❜d to make out the Verfe thus ; The Secret'ft Things of Nature, &c. i. e. the Arcana Natura, the Mysteries of Nature, of occult Philofophy, or of religious Ceremonies. Our Poct has Allufions of this Sort in feveral other Paffages. gentleman gentleman! a plague upon Antenor ! Cre. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees, I befeech you, what's the matter? Pan. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone: thou art chang'd for Antenor; thou must go to thy father, and be gone from Troilus: 'twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he cannot bear it. Cre. O you immortal Gods! I will not go. Cre. I will not, uncle: I've forgot my father, No kin, no love, no blood, no foul fo near me, If ever the leave Troilus. Time, Force, and Death, (20) But the ftrong Bafe and Building of my Love Is as the very centre of the earth, Drawing all to it. Pan. Do, do. I'll go and weep, Cre. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised Crack my clear voice with fobs, and break my heart SCENE, before Pandarus's Houfe. [Exe. Enter Paris, Troilus, Æneas, Deiphobus, Antenor, and Diomedes. Par I Par.TT is great morning, and the hour prefixt When the Second Impreffion came to be publish'd,theEditors, I prefume, were at a Loss, and so sunk the Word upon us which they could not make out. There is no Doubt, but the Poet wrote, Time, Force, and Death, i.e. The Compulfion of Fate, That, which the Latines call'd Sava Neceffitas. VOL. VII. R Tell |