_Hect._ Why then thy former soul is flown to me; For I, methinks, am lifted into air, As if my mind, mastering my mortal part, Would bear my exalted body to the gods. Last night I dreamt Jove sat on Ida's top, And, beckoning with his hand divine from far, He pointed to a choir of demi-gods, Bacchus and Hercules, and all the rest, Who, free from human toils, had gained the pitch Of blest eternity;--Lo there, he said, Lo there's a place for Hector. _Andr._ Be to thy enemies this boding dream! _Hect._ Why, it portends me honour and renown. _Andr._ Such honour as the brave gain after death; For I have dreamt all night of horrid slaughters, Of trampling horses, and of chariot wheels Wading in blood up to their axle-trees; Of fiery demons gliding down the skies, And Ilium brightened with a midnight blaze: O therefore, if thou lovest me, go not forth. _Hect._ Go to thy bed again, and there dream better.-- Ho! bid my trumpet sound. _Andr._ No notes of sally, for the heaven's sweet sake! 'Tis not for nothing when my spirits droop; This is a day when thy ill stars are strong, When they have driven thy helpless genius down The steep of heaven, to some obscure retreat. _Hect._ No more; even as thou lovest my fame, no more; My honour stands engaged to meet Achilles. What will the Grecians think, or what will he, Or what will Troy, or what wilt thou thyself, When once this ague fit of fear is o'er, If I should lose my honour for a dream? _Andr._ Your enemies too well your courage know, And heaven abhors the forfeit of rash vows, Like spotted livers in a sacrifice. I cannot, O I dare not let you go; For, when you leave me, my presaging mind Says, I shall never, never see you more. _Hect._ Thou excellently good, but oh too soft, Let me not 'scape the danger of this day; But I have struggling in my manly soul, To see those modest tears, ashamed to fall, And witness any part of woman in thee! And now I fear, lest thou shouldst think it fear, If, thus dissuaded, I refuse to fight, And stay inglorious in thy arms at home. _Andr._ Oh, could I have that thought, I should not love thee; Thy soul is proof to all things but to kindness; And therefore 'twas that I forbore to tell thee, How mad Cassandra, full of prophecy, Ran round the streets, and, like a Bacchanal, Cried,--Hold him, Priam, 'tis an ominous day; Let him not go, for Hector is no more. _Hect._ Our life is short, but to extend that span To vast eternity, is virtue's work; Therefore to thee, and not to fear of fate, Which once must come to all, give I this day. But see thou move no more the like request; For rest assured, that, to regain this hour, To-morrow will I tempt a double danger. Mean time, let destiny attend thy leisure; I reckon this one day a blank of life. _Enter_ TROILUS.