Fortune forbid my outside have not charmed her!

She made good view of me; indeed, so much

That – methought – her eyes had lost her tongue,

For she did speak in starts, distractedly.

She loves me, sure, the cunning of her passion

Invites me in this churlish messenger.

None of my lord’s ring! Why, he sent her none.

I am the man! If it be so – as ’tis –

Poor lady, she were better love a dream.

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

How easy is it for the proper false

In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms.

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,

For such as we are made of, such we be.

How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.

What will become of this? As I am man,

My state is desperate for my master’s love.

As I am woman – now alas the day,

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

O time, thou must untangle this, not I!

It is too hard a knot for me t’ untie.

Troilus and Cressida

[I, i, 91–106] Though his city, Troy, is at war, Prince Troilus deems no dispute worthy of his Cressida-engrossed attention – his anger is saved for the difficult intermediary who is running his love affair, Lord Pandarus:

Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds!

Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,

When with your blood you daily paint her thus.

I cannot fight upon this argument;

It is too starved a subject for my sword.

But Pandarus – O gods, how do you plague me!

I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar,

And he’s as tetchy to be wooed to woo

As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.

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 called the wild and wandering flood,

Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar

Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.

[I, ii, 281–95] Cressida too finds romance conducted through a go-between hard, but knows enough not to surrender any ground. Love, she senses, is as much a power-struggle as any war:

Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacrifice

He offers in another’s enterprise;

But more in Troilus thousandfold I see

Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be.

Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing;

Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing.

That she beloved knows naught that knows not this:

Men prize the thing ungained 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; ungained, beseech.’

Then, though my heart’s content firm love doth bear,