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In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece The princes orgulous, their high blood chafed, Have to the port of Athens sent their ships, Fraught with the ministers and instruments Of cruel war: sixty and nine, that wore Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen, With wanton Paris sleeps; and that’s the quarrel. To Tenedos they come; And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge Their warlike fraughtage: now on Dardan plains The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch Their brave pavilions: Priam’s six-gated city, Dardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien, And Antenorides, with massy staples And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, Sperr up the sons of Troy. Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, On one and other side, Trojan and Greek, Sets all on hazard: and hither am I come A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence Of author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suited In like conditions as our argument, To tell you, fair beholders, that our play Leaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, Beginning in the middle, starting thence away To what may be digested in a play. Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are: Now good or bad, ’tis but the chance of war.
The setting is Troy. From the Greek islands, The proud princes, their royal blood stirred up, Have sent their ships to the port of Athens, Filled with the tools and leaders of cruel war: Sixty-nine ships, each with a royal captain, Left the Athenian shore and sailed toward Phrygia; They have sworn to sack Troy, where the stolen Helen, Menelaus’ queen, with the playful Paris, lies; and that’s the reason for the war. They arrive at Tenedos; And the deep-draft ships unload their war supplies: Now, on the plains of Dardan, the fresh Greeks, Still unscarred from battle, set up their impressive tents: Priam’s six-gated city, Dardan, Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien, And Antenorides, with massive locks And secure bolts, shut out the sons of Troy. Now, anticipation stirs the eager hearts, On both sides, Trojan and Greek, Putting everything at risk: and here I come As a prologue armed, not confident in the pen or the actor’s voice, But in the same situation as our play’s theme, To tell you, fair spectators, that our play Jumps over the bragging and the early fights, Starting in the middle, then jumping ahead To what can be neatly told in a play. Like it or criticize it; do as you wish: Now good or bad, it’s just the luck of the war.
Call here my varlet; I’ll unarm again: Why should I war without the walls of Troy, That find such cruel battle here within? Each Trojan that is master of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none.
Call my servant here; I’ll take my armor off again: Why should I fight outside the walls of Troy, When I face such cruel battles inside? Every Trojan who is in control of his heart, Let him go to the field; but Troilus, alas! has none.
Will this gear ne’er be mended?
Will this ever be fixed?
The Greeks are strong and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill and to their fierceness valiant; But I am weaker than a woman’s tear, Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, Less valiant than the virgin in the night And skilless as unpractised infancy.
The Greeks are strong and good at using their strength, Fierce with their skills and brave with their fierceness; But I am weaker than a woman’s tear, Softer than sleep, more foolish than ignorance, Less brave than a virgin in the night And as clueless as an untrained child.
Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part, I’ll not meddle nor make no further. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding.
Well, I’ve said enough about this: as for me, I won’t get involved or say anything more. He who wants a cake from wheat must wait for the grinding.
Have I not tarried?
Have I not waited?
Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
Yes, for the grinding; but you must wait for the sifting.
Have I not tarried?
Have I not waited?
Ay, the bolting, but you must tarry the leavening.
Yes, waiting for the flour to be sifted, but you still have to wait for the dough to rise.
Still have I tarried.
I have still waited.
Ay, to the leavening; but here’s yet in the word ’hereafter’ the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips.
Yes, for the dough to rise; but there’s still more to do— like kneading the dough, baking the cake, heating the oven, and actually baking it. You must even wait for it to cool, or you might burn your mouth.
Patience herself, what goddess e’er she be, Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do. At Priam’s royal table do I sit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,-- So, traitor! ’When she comes!’ When is she thence?
Patience herself, whatever goddess she is, Endures suffering better than I do. I sit at Priam’s royal table, And when lovely Cressid enters my thoughts, I think, "So, traitor! ’When she comes!’ When will she be gone?"
Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else.
Well, she looked even more beautiful last night than I’ve ever seen her, or any other woman.
I was about to tell thee:--when my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, I have, as when the sun doth light a storm, Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile: But sorrow, that is couch’d in seeming gladness, Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.
I was about to tell you:—when my heart, So weighed down with a sigh, would break apart, I hide it, so Hector or my father don’t see it. Like when the sun breaks through a storm, I bury this sigh behind a smile: But sorrow, hidden behind false happiness, Is like joy that quickly turns to sadness.
An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen’s-- well, go to--there were no more comparison between the women: but, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her: but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra’s wit, but--
If her hair weren’t a bit darker than Helen’s—well, never mind—there’d be no comparison between the two women. But, as for me, she’s my relative; I wouldn’t, as they say, praise her, but I wish someone had heard her talk yesterday, like I did. I won’t badmouth your sister Cassandra’s intelligence, but—
O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,-- When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown’d, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench’d. I tell thee I am mad In Cressid’s love: thou answer’st ’she is fair;’ Pour’st in the open ulcer of my heart Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice, Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand, In whose comparison all whites are ink, Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure The cygnet’s down is harsh and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman: this thou tell’st me, As true thou tell’st me, when I say I love her; But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it.
Oh Pandarus! I tell you, Pandarus— When I tell you, my hopes are drowned, Don’t ask me how deep they lie. I tell you I’m madly in love with Cressid; You answer, "She’s beautiful;" You keep mentioning her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her walk, her voice, You talk about her hand, which is so perfect that anything else looks like ink in comparison, Soft to touch, more delicate than the softest down of a swan, and harder than a farmer’s hand. You tell me all this, and it’s true, just like when I say I love her; But by saying this, instead of comforting me, You’re adding salt to the wounds that love has caused me.
I speak no more than truth.
I’m only telling the truth.
Thou dost not speak so much.
You’re not telling me enough.
Faith, I’ll not meddle in’t. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, ’tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in her own hands.
Well, I won’t get involved. Let her be as she is: If she’s beautiful, that’s good for her; if not, she can fix it herself.
Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus!
Good Pandarus, what’s going on now, Pandarus?
I have had my labour for my travail; ill-thought on of her and ill-thought on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour.
I’ve worked hard for this; you both think badly of her and badly of me; I’ve been running around, but I get no thanks for my efforts.
What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me?
What, are you angry, Pandarus? With me?
Because she’s kin to me, therefore she’s not so fair as Helen: an she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a black-a-moor; ’tis all one to me.
Because she’s related to me, that’s why she’s not as pretty as Helen: if she weren’t my relative, she’d be as pretty on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what do I care? I don’t care if she’s a black woman; it makes no difference to me.
Say I she is not fair?
Are you saying she’s not pretty?
I do not care whether you do or no. She’s a fool to stay behind her father; let her to the Greeks; and so I’ll tell her the next time I see her: for my part, I’ll meddle nor make no more i’ the matter.
I don’t care if you say she is or not. She’s foolish to stay behind her father; let her go to the Greeks; and that’s what I’ll tell her the next time I see her: as for me, I won’t get involved any further in this.
Pandarus,--
Pandarus,--
Not I.
Not me.
Sweet Pandarus,--
Sweet Pandarus,--
Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and there an end.
Please, don’t talk to me anymore: I’ll leave everything as I found it, and that’s the end of it.
Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds! Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight upon this argument; It is too starved a subject for my sword. But Pandarus,--O gods, how do you plague me! I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar; And he’s as tetchy to be woo’d to woo. As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love, What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl: Between our Ilium and where she resides, Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood, Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark.
Quiet, you annoying noises! quiet, harsh sounds! Fools on both sides! Helen must surely be beautiful, When you keep painting her this way with your blood every day. I can’t fight over this issue; It’s too trivial a subject for my sword. But Pandarus,--Oh gods, how you’re tormenting me! I can’t reach Cressid except through Pandar; And he’s as hard to persuade to help me woo As she is stubbornly chaste against all my advances. Tell me, Apollo, for the love of your Daphne, What Cressid is, what Pandar is, and what I am? Her bed is in India; that’s where she lies, a pearl: Between our Troy and where she lives, Let it be called the wild and wandering sea, We ourselves the merchants, and this sailing Pandar Our uncertain hope, our guide and our ship.
How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not afield?
What’s happening, Prince Troilus! Why aren’t you out in the field?
Because not there: this woman’s answer sorts, For womanish it is to be from thence. What news, AEneas, from the field to-day?
Because not there: this woman’s response makes sense, Because it’s womanly to be away from there. What news, Aeneas, from the battlefield today?
That Paris is returned home and hurt.
Paris has come back home and he’s injured.
By whom, AEneas?
By whom, Aeneas?
Troilus, by Menelaus.
Troilus, by Menelaus.
Let Paris bleed; ’tis but a scar to scorn; Paris is gored with Menelaus’ horn.
Let Paris bleed; it’s just a scratch to show his shame; Paris has been wounded by Menelaus’ spear.
Hark, what good sport is out of town to-day!
Listen, what great excitement is happening outside today!
Better at home, if ’would I might’ were ’may.’ But to the sport abroad: are you bound thither?
I’d rather be at home, if wishes could come true. But, for the action outside: are you headed there?
In all swift haste.
Yes, as quickly as I can.
Come, go we then together.
Come on, let’s go together then.