d give me swift transportance to Elysium,
And fly with me to Cressida.

_Pand._ Walk here a moment more: I'll bring her strait.

_Troil._ I fear she will not come; most sure she will not.

_Pand._ How, not come, and I her uncle! why, I tell you, prince, she
twitters at you. Ah poor sweet rogue! ah, little rogue, now does she
think, and think, and think again of what must be betwixt you two. Oh
sweet,--oh sweet--O--what, not come, and I her uncle?

_Troil._ Still thou flatter'st me; but pr'ythee flatter still; for I
would hope; I would not wake out of my pleasing dream. Oh hope, how
sweet thou art! but to hope always, and have no effect of what we
hope!

_Pand._ Oh faint heart, faint heart! well, there's much good matter in
these old proverbs! No, she'll not come, I warrant her; she has no
blood of mine in her, not so much as will fill a flea. But if she does
not come, and come, and come with a swing into your arms--I say no
more, but she has renounced all grace, and there's an end.

_Troil._ I will believe thee: go then, but be sure.

_Pand._ No, you would not have me go; you are indifferent--shall I go,
say you? speak the word then:--yet I care not: you may stand in your
own light, and lose a sweet young lady's heart--well, I shall not go
then.

_Troil._ Fly, fly, thou torturest me.

_Pand._ Do I so, do I so? do I torture you indeed? well, I will go.

_Troil._ But yet thou dost not go.

_Pand._ I go immediately, directly, in a twinkling, with a thought:
yet you think a man never does enough for you; I have been labouring
in your business like any moyle. I was with prince Paris this morning,
to make your excuse at night for not supping at court; and I found
him--faith, how do you think I found him? it does my heart good to
think how I found him: yet you think a man never does enough for you.

_Troil._ Will you go then?--What's this to Cressida?

_Pand._ Why, you will not hear a man! what's this to Cressida? Why, I
found him a-bed, a-bed with Helena, by my troth: 'Tis a sweet queen, a
sweet queen; a very sweet queen,--but she's nothing to my cousin
Cressida; she's a blowse, a gipsy, a tawny moor to my cousin Cressida;
and she lay with one white arm underneath the whoreson's neck: Oh such
a white, lilly-white, round, plump arm as it was--and you must know it
was stripped up to the elbows; and she did so kiss him, and so huggle
him!--as who should say--

_Troil._ But still thou stayest:--what's this to Cre