Page 2857 - Shakespeare - Vol. 2

Then, sweet my lord, I’ll call mine uncle down;
He shall unbolt the gates.

TROILUS
Trouble him not;
To bed, to bed. Sleep kill those pretty eyes,
And give as soft attachment to thy senses [5]

As infants’ empty of all thought!

CRESSIDA
Good morrow, then.

TROILUS
I prithee now, to bed.

CRESSIDA
Are you a-weary of me?

TROILUS
O Cressida! But that the busy day,

Waked by the lark, hath roused the ribald crows,
And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer, [10]
I would not from thee.

CRESSIDA
Night hath been too brief.

TROILUS
Beshrew the witch! With venomous wights she stays
As hideously as hell, but flies the grasps of love

With wings more momentary-swift than thought.
You will catch cold, and curse me.

CRESSIDA
Prithee, tarry − [15]
You men will never tarry −

O foolish Cressid, I might have still held off,