_Pand._ O world, world: thou art an ungrateful patch of earth! Thus the poor agent is despised! he labours painfully in his calling, and trudges between parties: but when their turns are served, come out's too good for him. I am mighty melancholy. I'll e'en go home, and shut up my doors, and die o' the sullens, like an old bird in a cage! [_Exit_ PANDARUS. _Enter_ DIOMEDE _and_ THERSITES. _Thers._ [_Aside._] There, there he is; now let it work: now play thy part, jealousy, and twinge 'em: put 'em between thy mill-stones, and grind the rogues together. _Diom._ My lord, I am by Ajax sent to inform you, This hour must end the truce. _AEn._ to _Troil._ Contain yourself: Think where we are. _Diom._ Your stay will be unsafe. _Troil._ It may, for those I hate. _Thers._ [_Aside._] Well said, Trojan: there's the first hit. _Diom._ Beseech you, sir, make haste; my own affairs call me another way. _Thers._ [_Aside._] What affairs? what affairs? demand that, dolt-head! the rogue will lose a quarrel, for want of wit to ask that question. _Troil._ May I enquire where your affairs conduct you? _Thers._ [_Aside._] Well said again; I beg thy pardon. _Diom._ Oh, it concerns you not. _Troil._ Perhaps it does. _Diom._ You are too inquisitive: nor am I bound To satisfy an enemy's request. _Troil._ You have a ring upon your finger, Diomede, And given you by a lady. _Diom._ If it were, 'Twas given to one that can defend her gift. _Thers._ [_Aside._] So, so; the boars begin to gruntle at one another: set up your bristles now, a'both sides: whet and foam, rogues. _Troil._ You must restore it, Greek, by heaven you must; No spoil of mine shall grace a traitor's hand: And, with it, give me back the broken vows Of my false fair; which, perjured as she is, I never will resign, but with my soul. _Diom._ Then thou, it seems, art that forsaken fool, Who, wanting merit to preserve her heart, Repines in vain to see it better placed; But know, (for now I take a pride to grieve thee) Thou art so lost a thing in her esteem, I never heard thee named, but some scorn followed: Thou wert our table-talk for laughing meals; Thy name our sportful theme for evening-walks, And intermissive hours of cooler love, When hand in hand we went. _Troil._ Hell and furies! _Thers._ [_Aside._] O well stung, scorpion! Now Menelaus's Greek horns are out o' doors, there's a new cuckold starts up on the Trojan side. _Troil._ Yet this was she, ye gods, that very she, Who in my arms lay melting all the night; Who kissed and sighed, and sighed and kissed again, As if her soul flew upward to her lips, To meet mine there, and panted at the passage; Who, loth to find the breaking day, looked out, And shrunk into my bosom, there to make A little longer darkness. _Diom._ Plagues and tortures!