Each Trojan that is master of his heart,
Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none.”
“I am weaker than a woman’s tear,
Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance,
Less valiant than the virgin in the night
And skilless as unpractised infancy.”
“Sou mais fraco que as lágrimas de uma mulher,
Mais inofensivo que o sono, e vaidoso que a ignorância,
Menos valoroso do que uma virgem na noite escura
E menos habilidoso que uma criança que nunca guerreou.”
Quem não tem um pingo de paciência não deveria se atrever a assar bolos.
I tell thee I am mad
In Cressid’s love: thou answer’st <she is fair;>
Pour’st in the open ulcer of my heart
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,
Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand,
In whose comparison all whites are ink,
Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure
The cygnet’s down is harsh and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of ploughman: this thou tell’st me,
As true thou tell’st me, when I say I love her;
But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me
The knife that made it.
I speak no more than truth.
Thou dost not speak so much.”
Devo dizer-te, estou ficando louco
De tanto amar Créssida: tu respondes <ó, bela ela é!>;
Jorras teus discursos inflamados sobre meu coração ulcerado!
Seus olhos, seu cabelo, seu rosto, sim, seus modos, sua voz,
Tu manejas, tu descreves fielmente, tu pintas, ó pintor,
Em teus discursos-quadros! Ah, que sua mão branca como a neve
Faz das outras donzelas umas falsificadas, com mãos cheias de manchas,
Que toda página em branco parece já toda escrita em comparação,
Que tod’outra mão, em contraste, é delicada tanto quanto
A dum bruto serviçal de fazenda,
Que o cisne mais resplandecente, ao seu lado, não passa de criatura amuada e cinzenta—
Tudo isto não precisas reiterar, pois é obviedade!
Em vez de bálsamo confortador,
cada palavra tua, meu amigo,
é uma facada a mais que me porta este sentimento!
Nada mais falo que a verdade.
Então não fale tanto!”
“Olha, ela é minha irmã, então nunca será bela como
Helena; se ela não fosse minha parenta, podia ser tão bela
às sextas quanto Helena em pleno domingo; mas que me importa?
Que ela fosse etíope, olhos-puxados ou quem é, para mim dá na mesma,
Ademais, deixa que te fale: ela é uma tola que se esconde atrás do pai,
Deixemo-la com os gregos, se isso vai decidir a guerra!”
“Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love,
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl:
Between our Ilium and where she resides,
Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood,
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar
Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark.”
How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not a-field?
Because not there: this woman’s answer sorts,
For womanish it is to be from thence.
What news, AEneas, from the field to-day?
That Paris is returned home and hurt.
By whom, AEneas?
Troilus, by Menelaus.
Let Paris bleed; ‘tis but a scar to scorn;
Paris is gored with Menelaus’ horn.”
(…) there is among the Greeks
A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector;
They call him Ajax.”
“Dizem que ele é muito macho,
e se agüenta em pé sozinho.
Como todo homem, é lá verdade
se é que não é um bebum, arde em febre
ou nasceu sem membros ou
pernas não mais tem.”
“time must friend or end”
I swear to you. I think Helen loves him better than Paris.
Then she’s a merry Greek indeed.”
“Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing.
That she beloved knows nought that knows not this:
Men prize the thing ungain’d more than it is:
That she was never yet that ever knew
Love got so sweet as when desire did sue.
Therefore this maxim out of love I teach:
Achievement is command; ungain’d, beseech:
Then though my heart’s content firm love doth bear,
Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.”
“O que foi conquistado já foi perdido;
O fim da ação está na ação em si, não no passado evocado.
Quem houver amado, é ignaro, se não pensa:
Os homens enaltecem a mulher do vizinho, a amiga do amigo,
a cunhada, a nora, a sogra ou a madrasta mais do que qualquer esposa.
Só é doce a presa que custou muito sal e transpiração;
Em suma: entregar-se é espoliar-se; fazer doce é ver o homem em
Destarte por mais resolvido e inclinado que esteja meu peito,
mais submissa sej’essa égua ao seu senhor ao cabo,
não vai me assediar, romper meus muros,
nem o melhor soldado.”
Strength should be lord of imbecility,
And the rude son should strike his father dead:
Force should be right; or rather, right and wrong,
Between whose endless jar justice resides,
Should lose their names, and so should justice too.
Then every thing includes itself in power,
Power into will, will into appetite;
And appetite, an universal wolf,
So doubly seconded with will and power,
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon,
This chaos, when degree is suffocate,
Follows the choking.
And this neglection of degree it is [ausência de nobreza]
That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose
It hath to climb. The general’s disdain’d
By him one step below, he by the next,
That next by him beneath; so every step,
Exampled by the first pace that is sick
Of his superior, grows to an envious fever
Of pale and bloodless emulation:
And ‘tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot,
Not her own sinews [tendões]. To end a tale of length,
Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength.”
Esse fraco e astuto inimigo se alimenta de nossa covardia diuturna disfarçada de bravura.
Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks,
Shall make it good, or do his best to do it,
He hath a lady, wiser, fairer, truer,
Than ever Greek did compass in his arms,
And will to-morrow with his trumpet call
Midway between your tents and walls of Troy,
To rouse a Grecian that is true in love:
If any come, Hector shall honour him;
If none, he’ll say in Troy when he retires,
The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth
The splinter of a lance. Even so much.”
“we are soldiers;
And may that soldier a mere recreant prove,
That means not, hath not, or is not in love!
If then one is, or hath, or means to be,
That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he.”
This challenge that the gallant Hector sends,
However it is spread in general name,
Relates in purpose only to Achilles.”
“Estaríamos melhor sob o sol da África
do que sob a prepotência e a amarga vista desdenhosa de Aquiles”
No, make a lottery;
And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw
The sort to fight with Hector: among ourselves
Give him allowance for the better man
If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off,
We’ll dress him up in voices: if he fail,
Yet go we under our opinion still
That we have better men.”
Dois vira-latas devem conseguir roer o osso juntos.
I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness: but, I think, thy horse [Ajax’] will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book.”
Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles, and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpine’s beauty, ay, that thou barkest at him.”
“thou art here but to thrash Trojans; and thou art bought and sold among those of any wit, like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel, and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou!”
[Beating him] You cur!
Mars his idiot! do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.”
I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not: he there: that he: look you there.”
I will see you hanged, like clotpoles, ere I come any more to your tents: I will keep where there is wit stirring and leave the faction of fools.
A good riddance.”
“Nay, if we talk of reason, let’s shut our gates and sleep: manhood and honour should have hare-hearts, would they but fat their thoughts with this cramm’d reason” “se é pra usar a cabeça, melhor fechar nossos portões e ir dormir: valentia e honra devem ter corações de lebre, se engordam se alimentando desses pensamentos produzidos pela razão cultivada”
razão e reverência demais só servem pra nos tornar pálidos e embotar nosso fígados
– Ela não vale o que ela custa!
– O que é o custo, senão o que vale?
Não devolvemos o tecido ao mercador depois de estragá-lo, por que achas que aceitariam a mulher que já está corrompida? Por acaso devolves a carne estropiada e mastigada ao açougueiro?
A manhã empalidece, Apolo fica ofuscado — diante desta pele jovial e macia, beleza mais que divina, quando nos abre as portas de sua cidadela doce
Nunca vi ladrão ter medo da mercadoria que já é sua!
“Cry, Trojans, cry! practise your eyes with tears!
Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand;
Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all.
Cry, Trojans, cry! a Helen and a woe:
Cry, cry! Troy burns, or else let Helen go.
Paris vai ser tomado, graças a sua vaidade mulheril, pelo Cavalo Nazi.
Aristóteles condenará o hedonismo de vocês, caros jovens!
Prazeres e vinganças têm orelhas de decoro.
“If Helen then be wife to Sparta’s king,
As it is known she is, these moral laws
Of nature and of nations speak aloud
To have her back return’d: thus to persist
In doing wrong extenuates not wrong,
But makes it much more heavy.”
How now, Thersites! what lost in the labyrinth of thy fury! Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? He beats me, and I rail at him: O, worthy satisfaction! would it were otherwise; that I could beat him, whilst he railed at me.”
“The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue! heaven bless thee from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy direction till thy death!”
Come, what’s Agamemnon?
Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what’s Achilles?
Thy lord, Thersites: then tell me, I pray thee, what’s thyself?
Thy knower, Patroclus: then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou?
Thou mayst tell that knowest.
O, tell, tell.
I’ll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus’ knower, and Patroclus is a fool.
Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a fool, and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool.
Derive this; come.
Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool, and Patroclus is a fool positive.”
A amizade que a sabedoria não forja, pode a tolice tolher.
Alguns homens parecem elefantes: possuem pernas, mas não as juntas: cortesia não é seu forte, os membros não dobram.
Ele é um virtuose sem virtude.
Antes um anão agitado que um gigante dorminhão.
Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not what pride is.”
Quem só se lisonja na ruína, devora a ruína na lisonja.
Odeio mais o homem orgulhoso do que um conluio de sapos.
O corvo só sabe exalar escuridão.
What music is this?
I do but partly know, sir: it is music in parts.”
Who play they to?
To the hearers, sir.
At whose pleasure, friend?
At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.
Command, I mean, friend.
Who shall I command, sir?
Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play?
That’s to ‘t indeed, sir: marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord, who’s there in person; with him, the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love’s invisible soul,–
Who, my cousin Cressida?
No, sir, Helen: could you not find out that by her attributes?
It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus: I will make a complimental assault upon him, for my business seethes.”
Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company! fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide them! especially to you, fair queen! fair thoughts be your fair pillow!
Dear lord, you are full of fair words.
You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good broken music.
You have broke it, cousin: and, by my life, you shall make it whole again; you shall piece it out with a piece of your performance. Nell, he is full of harmony.”
My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen.
She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my lord Paris.
He! no, she’ll none of him; they two are twain.
Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.
Come, come, I’ll hear no more of this; I’ll sing you a song now.
Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a fine forehead.
Ay, you may, you may.
Let thy song be love: this love will undo us all.
O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!”
“These lovers cry Oh! oh! they die!
Yet that which seems the wound to kill,
Doth turn oh! oh! to ha! ha! he!
So dying love lives still:
Oh! oh! a while, but ha! ha! ha!
Oh! oh! groans out for ha! ha! ha!
Is this the generation of love? hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers: is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s a-field to-day?”
“what will it be,
When that the watery palate tastes indeed
Love’s thrice repured nectar? death, I fear me,
Swooning destruction, or some joy too fine,
Too subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness,
For the capacity of my ruder powers:
I fear it much; and I do fear besides,
That I shall lose distinction in my joys;
As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps
The enemy flying.”
“This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite and the execution confined, that the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.”
“They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able and yet reserve an ability that they never perform, vowing more than the perfection of ten and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are they not monsters?”
“no perfection in reversion shall have a praise in present”
Boldness comes to me now, and brings me heart.
Prince Troilus, I have loved you night and day
For many weary months.
Why was my Cressid then so hard to win?”
“Why have I blabb’d? who shall be true to us,
When we are so unsecret to ourselves?
But, though I loved you well, I woo’d you not;
And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man,
Or that we women had men’s privilege
Of speaking first.”
(…) stop my mouth.
My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me;
‘Twas not my purpose, thus to beg a kiss:
I am ashamed. O heavens! what have I done?
For this time will I take my leave, my lord.”
“but you are wise,
Or else you love not, for to be wise and love
Exceeds man’s might; that dwells with gods above.”
“Eu sou mais verdadeiro que a simplicidade da verdade
E mais simples que a transparência da verdade.”
“O virtuous fight,
When right with right wars who shall be most right!”
“Ó, combate virtuoso,
Quando o veraz com o veraz guerreia, quem deverá ser mais veraz!”
You have a Trojan prisoner, call’d Antenor,
Yesterday took: Troy holds him very dear.
Oft have you–often have you thanks therefore–
Desired my Cressid in right great exchange,
Whom Troy hath still denied: but this Antenor,
I know, is such a wrest in their affairs
That their negotiations all must slack,
Wanting his manage (…)
let him be sent, great princes,
And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence
Shall quite strike off all service I have done,
In most accepted pain.”
Achilles stands i’ the entrance of his tent:
Please it our general to pass strangely by him,
As if he were forgot; and, princes all,
Lay negligent and loose regard upon him:
I will come last. ‘Tis like he’ll question me
Why such unplausive eyes are bent on him:
If so, I have derision medicinable,
To use between your strangeness and his pride,
Which his own will shall have desire to drink:
It may be good: pride hath no other glass
To show itself but pride, for supple knees
Feed arrogance and are the proud man’s fees.”
“perseverance, dear my lord,
Keeps honour bright: to have done is to hang
Quite out of fashion”
“For time is like a fashionable host
That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,
And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly,
Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles,
And farewell goes out sighing.”
“The present eye praises the present object.
Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,
That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax;
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye
Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee,
And still it might, and yet it may again,
If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive
And case thy reputation in thy tent;
Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late,
Made emulous missions ‘mongst the gods themselves
And drave great Mars to faction.”
But ‘gainst your privacy
The reasons are more potent and heroical:
‘Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love
With one of Priam’s daughters.
Is that a wonder?
The providence that’s in a watchful state
Knows almost every grain of Plutus’ gold,
Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps,
Keeps place with thought and almost, like the gods,
Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles.
There is a mystery–with whom relation
Durst never meddle–in the soul of state;
Which hath an operation more divine
Than breath or pen can give expressure to:
All the commerce that you have had with Troy
As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord;
And better would it fit Achilles much
To throw down Hector than Polyxena:
But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home,
When fame shall in our islands sound her trump,
And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing,
<Great Hector’s sister did Achilles win,
But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.>
Farewell, my lord: I as your lover speak;
The fool slides o’er the ice that you should break.
“A woman impudent and mannish grown
Is not more loathed than an effeminate man
In time of action. I stand condemn’d for this;
They think my little stomach to the war
And your great love to me restrains you thus:
Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid
Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold”
“danger, like an ague, subtly taints even then when we sit idly in the sun.”
The man’s undone forever; for if Hector break not his neck i’ the combat, he’ll break ‘t himself in vain-glory. He knows not me: I said <Good morrow, Ajax;> and he replies <Thanks, Agamemnon.> What think you of this man that takes me for the general? He’s grown a very land-fish, language-less, a monster. A plague of opinion!”
“If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o’clock it will go one way or other: howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me.”
What music will be in him when Hector has knocked out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none, unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on.
Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.
Let me bear another to his horse; for that’s the more capable creature.”
Welcome, indeed! By Venus’ hand I swear,
No man alive can love in such a sort
The thing he means to kill more excellently.
We sympathize: Jove, let AEneas live,
If to my sword his fate be not the glory,
A thousand complete courses of the sun!
But, in mine emulous honour, let him die,
With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow!
We know each other well.
We do; and long to know each other worse.
This is the most despiteful gentle greeting,
The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of.
What business, lord, so early?”
That I assure you:
Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece
Than Cressid borne from Troy.”
Isso asseguro-te eu:
Troilo preferiria que Tróia tivesse nascido para ser dos gregos
que ver Créssida fora de Tróia.”
And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell me true,
Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship,
Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen best,
Myself or Menelaus?
He merits well to have her, that doth seek her,
Not making any scruple of her soilure,
With such a hell of pain and world of charge,
And you as well to keep her, that defend her,
Not palating the taste of her dishonour,
With such a costly loss of wealth and friends:
He, like a puling cuckold, would drink up
The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece;
You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins
Are pleased to breed out your inheritors:
Both merits poised, each weighs nor less nor more;
But he as he, the heavier for a whore.”
How now! what’s the matter?
My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,
My matter is so rash: there is at hand
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,
The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor
Deliver’d to us; and for him forthwith,
Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,
We must give up to Diomedes’ hand
The Lady Cressida.”
Is’t possible? no sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor! the young prince will go mad: a plague upon Antenor! I would they had broke ‘s neck!”
O the gods! what’s the matter?
Prithee, get thee in: would thou hadst ne’er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death. O, poor gentleman!”
I will not, uncle: I have forgot my father;
I know no touch of consanguinity;
No kin no love, no blood, no soul so near me
As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine!
Make Cressid’s name the very crown of falsehood,
If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,
Do to this body what extremes you can;
But the strong base and building of my love
Is as the very centre of the earth,
Drawing all things to it. I’ll go in and weep,–”
“Injurious time now with a robber’s haste
Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how:
As many farewells as be stars in heaven,
With distinct breath and consign’d kisses to them,
He fumbles up into a lose adieu,
And scants us with a single famish’d kiss,
Distasted with the salt of broken tears.”
Hear while I speak it, love:
The Grecian youths are full of quality;
They’re loving, well composed with gifts of nature,
Flowing and swelling o’er with arts and exercise:
How novelty may move, and parts with person,
Alas, a kind of godly jealousy–
Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin–
Makes me afeard.
O heavens! you love me not.”
Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.
Our general doth salute you with a kiss.
Yet is the kindness but particular;
‘Twere better she were kiss’d in general.
And very courtly counsel: I’ll begin.
So much for Nestor.
I’ll take what winter from your lips, fair lady:
Achilles bids you welcome.
I had good argument for kissing once.
But that’s no argument for kissing now;
For this popp’d Paris in his hardiment,
And parted thus you and your argument.
O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns!
For which we lose our heads to gild his horns.
The first was Menelaus’ kiss; this, mine:
Patroclus kisses you.
O, this is trim!
Paris and I kiss evermore for him.
I’ll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave.
In kissing, do you render or receive?
Both take and give.
I’ll make my match to live,
The kiss you take is better than you give;
Therefore no kiss.
I’ll give you boot, I’ll give you three for one.
You’re an odd man; give even or give none.
An odd man, lady! every man is odd.
No, Paris is not; for you know ‘tis true,
That you are odd, and he is even with you.
You fillip me o’ the head.
No, I’ll be sworn.
It were no match, your nail against his horn.
May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you?
I do desire it.
Why, beg, then.
Why then for Venus’ sake, give me a kiss,
When Helen is a maid again, and his.
I am your debtor, claim it when ‘tis due.
Never’s my day, and then a kiss of you.
Lady, a word: I’ll bring you to your father.
Exit with CRESSIDA
A woman of quick sense.
Fie, fie upon her!
There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out
At every joint and motive of her body.”
If not Achilles, sir,
What is your name?
If not Achilles, nothing.”
Not soon provoked nor being provoked soon calm’d:
Manly as Hector, but more dangerous;
For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes
To tender objects, but he in heat of action
Is more vindicative than jealous love:
They call him Troilus, and on him erect
A second hope, as fairly built as Hector.
Thus says AEneas”
Princes, enough, so please you.
I am not warm yet; let us fight again.
As Hector pleases.
Why, then will I no more:
Thou art, great lord, my father’s sister’s son,
A cousin-german to great Priam’s seed;
The obligation of our blood forbids
A gory emulation ‘twixt us twain:
Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so
That thou couldst say <This hand is Grecian all,
And this is Trojan; the sinews of this leg
All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother’s blood
Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister
Bounds in my father’s>; by Jove multipotent,
Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member
Wherein my sword had not impressure made
Of our rank feud: but the just gods gainsay
That any drop thou borrow’dst from thy mother,
My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword
Be drain’d! Let me embrace thee, Ajax:
By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms;
Hector would have them fall upon him thus:
Cousin, all honour to thee!
I thank thee, Hector
Thou art too gentle and too free a man:
I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence
A great addition earned in thy death.”
Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue:
My prophecy is but half his journey yet;
For yonder walls, that pertly front your town,
Yond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds,
Must kiss their own feet.
I must not believe you:
There they stand yet, and modestly I think,
The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost
A drop of Grecian blood: the end crowns all,
And that old common arbitrator, Time,
Will one day end it.”
O, like a book of sport thou’lt read me o’er;
But there’s more in me than thou understand’st.
Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye?
Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body
Shall I destroy him? whether there, or there, or there?
That I may give the local wound a name
And make distinct the very breach whereout
Hector’s great spirit flew: answer me, heavens!
It would discredit the blest gods, proud man,
To answer such a question: stand again:
Think’st thou to catch my life so pleasantly
As to prenominate in nice conjecture
Where thou wilt hit me dead?
I tell thee, yea.
Wert thou an oracle to tell me so,
I’d not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well;
For I’ll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there;
But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm,
I’ll kill thee every where, yea, o’er and o’er.
You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag;
His insolence draws folly from my lips;
But I’ll endeavour deeds to match these words,
Or may I never–”
“sweet love is food for fortune’s tooth”
“as delícias do amor são comida para o dente chamado azar”
Well said, adversity! and what need these tricks?
Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk: thou art thought to be Achilles’ male varlet.
Male varlet, you rogue! what’s that?
Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of the south, the guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs, loads o’ gravel i’ the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas, limekilns i’ the palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous discoveries!
Why thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus?
Do I curse thee?
Why no, you ruinous butt, you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no.”
Os monólogos do interessantíssimo Tersites:
“To an ass, were nothing; he is both ass and ox: to an ox, were nothing; he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew [furão], a toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock [ave de rapina], or a herring without a roe [peixe assexuado], I would not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny. Ask me not, what I would be, if I were not Thersites; for I care not to be the louse of a lazar [um inseto que transmite a lepra], so I were not Menelaus! Hey-day [auge, era dourada]! spirits and fires!
the sun borrows of the moon, when Diomed keeps his word. I will rather leave to see Hector, than not to dog him: they say he keeps a Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas’ tent: I’ll after. Nothing but lechery! all incontinent varlets!
MEDIADOR “FABULOSO” DE ZEUS
Quando Diomedes, o Pernas-Curtas, diz a verdade, o sol rouba a luz da lua.
I shall have it.
O, all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!
Thy master now lies thinking in his bed
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
I had your heart before, this follows it.”
Well, well, ‘tis done, ‘tis past: and yet it is not;
I will not keep my word.
Why, then, farewell;
Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.
You shall not go: one cannot speak a word,
But it straight starts you.
I do not like this fooling.
Nor I, by Pluto: but that that likes not you pleases me best.
What, shall I come? the hour?
Ay, come:–O Jove!–do come:–I shall be plagued.
Farewell till then.
Good night: I prithee, come.
Troilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind:
What error leads must err; O, then conclude
Minds sway’d by eyes are full of turpitude.
A proof of strength she could not publish more,
Unless she said <My mind is now turn’d whore>.
All’s done, my lord.
Why stay we, then?
To make a recordation to my soul
Of every syllable that here was spoke.
But if I tell how these two did co-act,
Shall I not lie in publishing a truth?
Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,
An esperance so obstinately strong,
That doth invert the attest of eyes and ears,
As if those organs had deceptious functions,
Created only to calumniate.
Was Cressid here?
I cannot conjure, Trojan.
She was not, sure.
Most sure she was.
Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.
Nor mine, my lord: Cressid was here but now.
Let it not be believed for womanhood!
Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage
To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme,
For depravation, to square the general sex
By Cressid’s rule: rather think this not Cressid.
What hath she done, prince, that can soil our mothers?
Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
Will he swagger himself out on’s own eyes?
This she? no, this is Diomed’s Cressida:
If beauty have a soul, this is not she;
If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies,
If sanctimony be the gods’ delight,
If there be rule in unity itself,
This is not she. O madness of discourse,
That cause sets up with and against itself!
Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt
Without perdition, and loss assume all reason
Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid.
Within my soul there doth conduce a fight
Of this strange nature that a thing inseparate
Divides more wider than the sky and earth,
And yet the spacious breadth of this division
Admits no orifex for a point as subtle
As Ariachne’s broken woof to enter.
Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto’s gates;
Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven:
Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself;
The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolved, and loosed;
And with another knot, five-finger-tied,
The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,
The fragments, scraps, the bits and greasy relics
Of her o’er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed.
May worthy Troilus be half attach’d
With that which here his passion doth express?
Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well
In characters as red as Mars his heart
Inflamed with Venus: never did young man fancy
With so eternal and so fix’d a soul.
Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love,
So much by weight hate I her Diomed:
That sleeve is mine that he’ll bear on his helm;
Were it a casque composed by Vulcan’s skill,
My sword should bite it: not the dreadful spout
Which shipmen do the hurricano call,
Constringed in mass by the almighty sun,
Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear
In his descent than shall my prompted sword
Falling on Diomed.
He’ll tickle it for his concupy.
O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false!
Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,
And they’ll seem glorious.
O, contain yourself
Your passion draws ears hither.
“still, wars and lechery; nothing else holds fashion”
guerra e concupiscência, em qualquer contexto, em qualquer cenário, a ordem do dia, suprimindo tudo o mais…
“guerra, sangue e putaria: nada mais importa!”
Be gone, I say: the gods have heard me swear.
The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows:
They are polluted offerings, more abhorr’d
Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.”
For the love of all the gods,
Let’s leave the hermit pity with our mothers,
And when we have our armours buckled on,
The venom’d vengeance ride upon our swords,
Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth.”
Come, Hector, come, go back:
Thy wife hath dream’d; thy mother hath had visions;
Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself
Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt
To tell thee that this day is ominous:
Therefore, come back.
AEneas is a-field;
And I do stand engaged to many Greeks,
Even in the faith of valour, to appear
This morning to them.
Ay, but thou shalt not go.”
This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl
Makes all these bodements.
O, farewell, dear Hector!
Look, how thou diest! look, how thy eye turns pale!
Look, how thy wounds do bleed at many vents!
Hark, how Troy roars! how Hecuba cries out!
How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth!
Behold, distraction, frenzy and amazement,
Like witless antics, one another meet,
And all cry, Hector! Hector’s dead! O Hector!
Farewell: yet, soft! Hector! take my leave:
Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.
“Proud Diomed, believe, I come to lose my arm, or win my sleeve.”
(…) What says she there?
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart:
The effect doth operate another way.”
“and now is the cur Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm to-day; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion.”
What art thou, Greek? art thou for Hector’s match?
Art thou of blood and honour?
No, no, I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave: a very filthy rogue.
I do believe thee: live.
“What’s become of the wenching rogues? I think they have swallowed one another: I would laugh at that miracle: yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I’ll seek them.” “Onde foram parar aqueles dois vigaristas, aqueles dois cafetões? É, eu acho que um engoliu o outro: eu riria demasiado desse desfecho inusitado: de certa forma, é verdade que a luxúria se devora a si mesma, então não seria impossível! É, vou procurá-los!…”
(…) the dreadful Sagittary
Appals our numbers: haste we, Diomed,
To reinforcement, or we perish all.
Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles;
And bid the snail-paced Ajax arm for shame.
There is a thousand Hectors in the field:
Now here he fights on Galathe his horse,
And there lacks work; anon he’s there afoot,
And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls
Before the belching whale; then is he yonder,
And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge,
Fall down before him, like the mower’s swath:
Here, there, and every where, he leaves and takes,
Dexterity so obeying appetite
That what he will he does, and does so much
That proof is call’d impossibility.
O, courage, courage, princes! great Achilles
Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance:
Patroclus’ wounds have roused his drowsy blood,
Together with his mangled Myrmidons,
That noseless, handless, hack’d and chipp’d, come to him,
Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend
And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d and at it,
Roaring for Troilus, who hath done to-day
Mad and fantastic execution,
Engaging and redeeming of himself
With such a careless force and forceless care
As if that luck, in very spite of cunning,
Bade him win all.”
Where is this Hector?
Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face;
Know what it is to meet Achilles angry:
Hector? where’s Hector? I will none but Hector.
Ajax hath ta’en AEneas: shall it be?
No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,
He shall not carry him: I’ll be ta’en too,
Or bring him off: fate, hear me what I say!
I reck not though I end my life to-day.
“Enter MENELAUS and PARIS, fighting: then THERSITES
The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull! now, dog! ‘Loo, Paris, ‘loo! now my double-henned sparrow! ‘loo, Paris, ‘loo! The bull has the game: ware horns, ho!
Exeunt PARIS and MENELAUS
Turn, slave, and fight.
What art thou?
A bastard son of Priam’s.
I am a bastard too; I love bastards: I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel’s most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgment: farewell, bastard.
The devil take thee, coward!
Bastardos me mordam!
Um Aquiles canalha que manda matar:
“Enter ACHILLES and Myrmidons
Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set;
How ugly night comes breathing at his heels:
Even with the vail and darking of the sun,
To close the day up, Hector’s life is done.
I am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek.
Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.
So, Ilion, fall thou next! now, Troy, sink down!
Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.
On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain,
<Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.>
A retreat sounded
Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.”
“Sheathes his sword
Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail;
Along the field I will the Trojan trail.
Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy!
I say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy,
And linger not our sure destructions on!
My lord, you do discomfort all the host!”
why should our endeavour be so loved and the performance so loathed?”
“Por que com diligência fazemos o bem e somos retribuídos com o puro mal?”