Troilus and Cressida Translation Act 5, Scene 10
Enter AENEAS and Trojans
Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field:Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Keep fighting! We are winning the battle. Never return home, we'll fight throughout the night.
Hector is slain.
Hector is dead.
Hector! the gods forbid!
Hector! Oh gods, don't let it be true!
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!
He's dead, and he is being dragged through the shameful battlefield from his killer's horse's tail like an animal. Be angry at this, gods, and smite them! Oh gods, sitting on your thrones, and smile on Troy! Put us out of our misery, and don't prolong our destruction!
My lord, you do discomfort all the host!
My lord, you are upsetting our army.
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 pitched 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.
You don't understand me, I'm not saying we should run away, or be afraid, or that we will die, but I challenge all imminent dangers from gods and men that they are preparing for me. Hector is dead, and who is going to tell Priam or Hecuba? Send someone who is prepared to tell this ominous news go to Troy and tell them that Hector is dead. That word will make Priam turn to stone, that will make young women and wives turn into wells of tears, and, with that one sentence, scare Troy out of its senses. Go, march away, Hector is dead, there's nothing else to say. But you hateful tents that are pitched proudly outside our city, you can stay. Let the sun rise early tomorrow, because I will run you through with my sword! And you, huge coward, there is no distance that shall stop me hating you. I'll haunt you like a bad conscience that created goblins as quick as frenzied thoughts. March quickly into Troy, and go with the comfort: hope of revenge will hide our inner sorrow.
Exeunt AENEAS and Trojans
As TROILUS is going out, enter, from the other side, PANDARUS
But hear you, hear you!
Hence, broker-lackey! ignomy and shamePursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!
Go away, you middleman! May dishonor and shame follow you for the rest of your life, and may your name always mean "pimp."
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 performance 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 subdued in armed tail, Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted 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 bequeathe you my diseases.
Oh, this is a good medicine for my aching bones! Oh world! World! World! In this way the poor servant is hated! Oh traitors and matchmakers, how honestly are you made to work, and how badly are you rewarded? Why should people love what we make possible, but hate us when we do it? What poem can describe this What argument can I used to object to this? Let me see: [Singing]
The bumble bee sings very merrily,
Until he has lost his honey and his sting.
And when his weapon has been subdued,
His sweet praise and happy words are spent.
[Stops singing] Men who trade in flesh, make pictures out of this: "As many people here are in Pandar's house, even though your eyes are half-gone, you should still cry for Pandarus's sad fate. If you cannot weep, groan instead, and if not for me then for your aching bones." Brothers and sisters of the prostitution business, two months from now I'll die and my will will be read. I would put it on now, but I am worried that some bitter Winchester goose would shout at me. Until then I will try to find something to help ease my symptoms, and at that time I will let you inherit my diseases.
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