Direct reading · Original
Section 20
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Troy.
Oh Pandarus! I tell thee Pandarus;
When I doe tell thee, there my hopes lye drown'd:
Reply not inhow many Fadomes deepe
They lye indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad
In Cressids loue. Thou answer'st she is
Faire,
Powr'st in the open Vlcer of my heart,
Her Eyes, her Haire, her Cheeke, her Gate her Voice,
Handlest in thy discourse. O that her Hand
(In whose comparison, all whites are Inke)
Writing their owne reproach; to whose soft seizure,
The Cignits Downe is harsh, and spirit of Sense
Hard as the palme of Plough‑man. This thou tel'st me;
As true thou tel'st me, when I say I loue her
But saying thus, instead of Oyle and Balme,