_Priam._ I did not name myself, because I know When thou art gone, I need no Grecian sword To help me die, but only Hector's loss.-- Daughter, why speak not you? why stand you silent? Have you no right in Hector, as a wife? _Andro._ I would be worthy to be Hector's wife: And had I been a man, as my soul's one, I had aspired a nobler name,--his friend. How I love Hector,--need I say I love him?-- I am not but in him: But when I see him arming for his honour, His country and his gods, that martial fire, That mounts his courage, kindles even to me: And when the Trojan matrons wait him out With prayers, and meet with blessings his return, The pride of virtue beats within my breast, To wipe away the sweat and dust of war, And dress my hero glorious in his wounds. _Hect._ Come to my arms, thou manlier virtue, come! Thou better name than wife! would'st thou not blush To hug a coward thus? [_Embrace._ _Priam._ Yet still I fear! _Andro._ There spoke a woman; pardon, royal sir; Has he not met a thousand lifted swords Of thick-ranked Grecians, and shall one affright him? There's not a day but he encounters armies; And yet as safe, as if the broad-brimmed shield, That Pallas wears, were held 'twixt him and death. _Hect._ Thou know'st me well, and thou shalt praise me more; Gods make me worthy of thee! _Andro._ You shall be My knight this day; you shall not wear a cause So black as Helen's rape upon your breast. Let Paris fight for Helen; guilt for guilt: But when you fight for honour and for me, Then let our equal gods behold an act, They may not blush to crown. _Hect._ AEneas, go, And bear my challenge to the Grecian camp. If there be one amongst the best of Greece, Who holds his honour higher than his ease, Who knows his valour, and knows not his fear; Who loves his mistress more than in confession, And dares avow her beauty and her worth, In other arms than hers,--to him this challenge. I have a lady of more truth and beauty, Than ever Greek did compass in his arms; And will to-morrow, with the trumpet's call, Mid-way between their tents and these our walls, Maintain what I have said. If any come, My sword shall honour him; if none shall dare, Then shall I say, at my return to Troy, The Grecian dames are sun-burnt, and not worth The splinter of a lance. _AEn._ It shall be told them, As boldly as you gave it. _Priam._ Heaven protect thee! [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter_ PANDARUS _and_ CRESSIDA. _Pand._ Yonder he stands, poor wretch! there stands he with such a look, and such a face, and such begging eyes! there he stands, poor prisoner! _Cress._ What a deluge of words do you pour out, uncle, to say just nothing?