arrel, for want of wit to ask that
question.

_Troil._ May I enquire where your affairs conduct you?

_Thers._ [_Aside._] Well said again; I beg thy pardon.

_Diom._ Oh, it concerns you not.

_Troil._ Perhaps it does.

_Diom._ You are too inquisitive: nor am I bound
To satisfy an enemy's request.

_Troil._ You have a ring upon your finger, Diomede,
And given you by a lady.

_Diom._ If it were,
'Twas given to one that can defend her gift.

_Thers._ [_Aside._] So, so; the boars begin to gruntle at one another:
set up your bristles now, a'both sides: whet and foam, rogues.

_Troil._ You must restore it, Greek, by heaven you must;
No spoil of mine shall grace a traitor's hand:
And, with it, give me back the broken vows
Of my false fair; which, perjured as she is,
I never will resign, but with my soul.

_Diom._ Then thou, it seems, art that forsaken fool,
Who, wanting merit to preserve her heart,
Repines in vain to see it better placed;
But know, (for now I take a pride to grieve thee)
Thou art so lost a thing in her esteem,
I never heard thee named, but some scorn followed:
Thou wert our table-talk for laughing meals;
Thy name our sportful theme for evening-walks,
And intermissive hours of cooler love,
When hand in hand we went.

_Troil._ Hell and furies!

_Thers._ [_Aside._] O well stung, scorpion!
Now Menelaus's Greek horns are out o' doors, there's a new cuckold
starts up on the Trojan side.

_Troil._ Yet this was she, ye gods, that very she,
Who in my arms lay melting all the night;
Who kissed and sighed, and sighed and kissed again,
As if her soul flew upward to her lips,
To meet mine there, and panted at the passage;
Who, loth to find the breaking day, looked out,
And shrunk into my bosom, there to make
A little longer darkness.

_Diom._ Plagues and tortures!

_Thers._ Good, good, by Pluto! their fool's mad, to lose his harlot;
and our fool's mad, that t'other fool had her first. If I sought peace
now, I could tell 'em there's punk enough to satisfy 'em both: whore
sufficient! but let 'em worry one another, the foolish curs; they
think they never can have enough of carrion.

_AEn._ My lords, this fury is not proper here
In time of truce; if either side be injured,
To-morrow's sun will rise apace, and then--

_Troil._ And then! but why should I defer till then?
My blood calls now, there is no truce for traitors;
My vengeance rolls within my breast; it must,
It will have vent,--