_Troil._ Could I believe thee, could I think thee true, In triumph would I bear thee back to Troy, Though Greece could rally all her shattered troops, And stand embattled to oppose my way. But, oh, thou syren, I will stop my ears To thy enchanting notes; the winds shall bear Upon their wings thy words, more light than they.
_Cres._ Alas! I but dissembled love to him. If ever he had any proof, beyond What modesty might give--
_Diom._ No! witness this.-- [_The Ring shewn._ There, take her, Trojan, thou deserv'st her best; You good, kind-natured, well-believing fools, Are treasures to a woman. I was a jealous, hard, vexatious lover, And doubted even this pledge,--till full possession; But she was honourable to her word, And I have no just reason to complain.
_Cres._ O unexampled, frontless impudence!
_Troil._ Hell, show me such another tortured wretch as Troilus!
_Diom._ Nay, grieve not; I resign her freely up; I'm satisfied; and dare engage for Cressida, That, if you have a promise of her person, She shall be willing to come out of debt.
_Cres._ [_Kneeling._] My only lord, by all those holy vows, Which, if there be a Power above, are binding, Or, if there be a hell below, are fearful, May every imprecation, which your rage Can wish on me, take place, if I am false!
_Diom._ Nay, since you're so concerned to be believed, I'm sorry I have pressed my charge so far: Be what you would be thought; I can be grateful.
_Troil._ Grateful! Oh torment! now hell's bluest flames Receive her quick, with all her crimes upon her! Let her sink spotted down! let the dark host Make room, and point, and hiss her as she goes! Let the most branded ghosts of all her sex Rejoice, and cry,--"Here comes a blacker fiend!" Let her--
_Cres._ Enough, my lord; you've said enough. This faithless, perjured, hated Cressida, Shall be no more the subject of your curses: Some few hours hence, and grief had done your work; But then your eyes had missed the satisfaction, Which thus I give you,--thus-- [_She stabs herself; they both run to her._
_Cres._ Stand off, and touch me not, thou traitor Diomede;-- But you, my only Troilus, come near: Trust me, the wound, which I have given this breast, Is far less painful than the wound you gave it. Oh, can you yet believe, that I am true?