Troilus speaks in hyperbolic love-lyric even when the situation doesn't call for it — his metaphors overflow into self-pity. Watch for how he turns every conversation back to Cressida, even when discussing the war.
Call here my varlet; I’ll unarm again.
Why should I war without the walls of Troy
That find such cruel battle here within?
Each Trojan that is master of his heart,
Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none.
Servant! I need you to remove my armor. Why should I fight in this war outside Troy's walls when I'm having such a brutal battle inside myself? Let any Trojan with control over his own heart go to battle. As for me—Troilus, unfortunately—I have no command over mine.
Hey, get my armor off. Why am I supposed to be out there fighting this whole war when I'm being destroyed inside my own head? Anyone else who can actually control themselves should go fight. Me? I'm completely lost.
take my armor off i can't fight when i'm like this there's a war inside me and it's winning
Pandarus talks in proverbs and domestic analogies (bread-making, grinding, baking) that deflate romantic passion into mundane process. Watch for how he manages the conversation by threatening to withdraw his help.
Will this gear ne’er be mended?
Is this situation ever going to improve?
Are things ever going to get better with you?
is this ever going to change?
The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength,
Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant;
But 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 unpractis’d infancy.
The Greeks are formidable and have the skill to match their strength; fierce in skill, valiant in their ferocity. But I'm weaker than a woman's tear, tamer than sleep, more foolishly devoted than ignorance itself, less courageous than a virgin girl afraid of the dark, and as unskilled as an infant who's never tried anything.
Yeah, the Greeks are strong and they really know how to use that strength. They're fierce and they've got guts to match. But me? I'm weaker than someone crying, softer than sleep, more clueless than stupidity itself, less brave than a scared girl at night, and about as skilled as a baby who just got born.
greeks are strong and fierce but i'm weaker than a tear tamer than sleep less brave than a scared girl i have no skills at all
Well, I have told you enough of this; for my part, I’ll not meddle nor
make no farther. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry
the grinding.
Listen, I've said everything I'm going to say about this; as for me, I won't get involved anymore or take it any further. Anyone who wants to have a cake made from wheat has to wait through the grinding.
Look, I've told you everything I'm going to tell you. I'm out. I'm not doing this anymore. You want a fresh-baked cake? You're gonna have to wait while the grain gets ground up first.
i'm done talking about this i'm not helping anymore you want a cake? wait for the grinding
Have I not tarried?
Haven't I been waiting long enough?
Haven't I already been waiting?
haven't i waited long enough?
Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
Aye, the grain must be ground, the bran must be sifted, the flour must be leavened, the dough must be kneaded—after all that comes the baking. If you want the bread, you have to go through all the stages.
Yeah, the grain's gotta be ground, then it's gotta be sifted, then the dough needs rise time, then you knead it—and that's before you even put it in the oven. If you want the finished loaf, you're gonna wait for every single step.
grind the grain sift the bran leaven the dough knead it bake it then you eat
Have I not tarried?
You have hemmed me in with this patience.
You've trapped me with all this waiting.
you've boxed me in with waiting
Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.
I have had my labor for my pain—and the labor must be borne by you, as well. Either press the business yourself or abandon it; but for my part, I will go no further.
I've done all the work and gotten nothing out of it, and you're gonna have to do some of the heavy lifting too. Either push forward yourself or forget about it, but I'm stepping back.
i've worked hard and got nothing you gotta do it yourself now or let it go i'm done
Still have I tarried.
You know, Pandarus, I have had as much shame at the delay of my own suit as if I had sold my inheritance for what I now owe you.
Look, you know how embarrassed I am that this is taking so long? It's like I've already sold off everything I own just to pay you back for waiting.
i'm so ashamed this is taking forever i already owe you everything
Ay, to the leavening; but here’s yet in the word ‘hereafter’ the
kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the
baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance burn your
lips.
Do not you love her, to see her thus withdrawn and removed from your sight?
Don't you even care about her? She's been kept away from everyone, from you too.
don't you love her? she's locked away from you from everyone
Troilus is not a coward — he will prove himself a fierce fighter later in the play. But Shakespeare opens the play by showing him paralyzed by love, refusing to arm himself for a war that is literally happening outside his city walls. This is a deliberate inversion of epic convention. In Homer's Iliad, heroes are defined by their martial prowess. Shakespeare's play dismantles that: the first thing we see is a warrior who can't get out of bed because he's lovesick. The entire play will sustain this ironic relationship with its own epic source material — the Greek heroes are vain, petty, or dissolute; the Trojan heroes are noble but doomed. Troilus, unable to fight because of Cressida, is a microcosm of Troy itself, undone by a love affair.
Patience herself, what goddess e’er she be,
Doth lesser blench at suff’rance than I do.
At Priam’s royal table do I sit;
And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,
So, traitor! ‘when she comes’! when she is thence?
What, my dear friend? I do as much as I may.
What are you talking about? I'm doing everything I can.
what? i'm already doing everything
Well, she look’d yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any
woman else.
And what is it you would have me do? I am here about it; I have been here; I will be here. Your business is still not advanced.
What more do you want from me? I'm showing up. I've been showing up. I'll keep showing up. And still nothing happens.
i'm here i've been here i'll stay here and nothing changes
I was about to tell thee: when my heart,
As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain,
Lest Hector or my father should perceive me,
I have, as when the sun doth light a storm,
Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile.
But sorrow that is couch’d in seeming gladness
Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.
Well, I have not answered you that question. But I will be here. Where is Cressida?
I'm not gonna answer that. But fine, I'll stick around. Where's Cressida anyway?
i'm not answering but i'll stay where's cressida?
An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen’s, well, go to, there
were no more comparison between the women. But, for my part, she is my
kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her, but I would
somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise
your sister Cassandra’s wit; but—
There, where I always wish she was—but not there, where I fear she'll be. At her father's house. Come, let us go.
She's at her father's place. That's where I always want her to be, but also where I never want her. Come on, let's go.
she's at her father's that's where i wish and where i fear let's go
O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,
When I do tell thee there my hopes lie drown’d,
Reply not in how many fathoms deep
They lie indrench’d. 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.
You are a great priest, Pandarus, to make such a deep incision in the open wound of my heart. Your every compliment about her cuts deeper into me than a surgeon's blade.
You're like some kind of priest, Pandarus—except instead of healing, you just keep digging into my wounds. Every nice thing you say about her just hurts me more.
you're a priest of pain digging into my wounds every word about her cuts deeper
I speak no more than truth.
I only speak the truth about her. What would you have me do? Lie to you?
I'm just telling the truth. What do you want me to do, make stuff up?
i'm telling the truth what else would you want?
Thou dost not speak so much.
But your truth brings me only pain. You have praised her so much that you have made me fall in love with her, and now your praise wounds me like an arrow through the heart.
Yeah, but your truth is killing me. You talked her up so much that I fell for her, and now every time you praise her, it's like you're shooting me with an arrow.
your truth hurts you made me love her now your words are arrows
Faith, I’ll not meddle in’t. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, ’tis
the better for her; and she be not, she has the mends in her own hands.
I say good things about her because she deserves it. Is it my fault that you love her?
I'm just saying what's true about her. Is that my fault that you caught feelings?
i'm just telling what's true not my problem you love her
Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus!
No, but you have not just told me—you have sold me, and yourself, and her, and all of us into this merchant's contract of love.
No, you didn't just tell me—you sold me on it. You sold all of us. Now we're all caught up in this love deal.
you didn't tell you sold us all of us into this love game
I have had my labour for my travail, ill thought on of her and ill
thought on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my
labour.
Well, let me hear more of this. What is your reasoning?
Alright, fine. Make your case. What's your logic?
okay fine tell me more
What! art thou angry, Pandarus? What! with me?
I will be gone. That will be a sign of my love for you—that I go, hearing nothing more of her.
I'm leaving. And that's how you'll know I love you—I'll walk away without hearing another word about her.
i'm leaving that proves i love you walk away stop talking about her
The word 'pander' — meaning a go-between in a sexual or romantic arrangement, or more broadly a procurer — comes directly from this character. Pandarus in the medieval tradition (Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde, Boccaccio's Il Filostrato) was a broker of love, someone who arranged the liaison between Troilus and Cressida. Shakespeare inherits this figure and makes him simultaneously more comic and more morally compromised. Pandarus constantly threatens to withdraw his services, making himself indispensable while complaining about the cost. He is, from the start, a man who profits from desire — a fact that will color everything he does, including his famous epilogue at the play's end. His very name became a word, and this scene shows exactly why.
Because she’s kin to me, therefore she’s not so fair as Helen. And she
were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on
Sunday. But what care I? I care not and she were a blackamoor; ’tis all
one to me.
No, I beg you, don't go. I was just—I will hear as much as you will speak.
No, wait. Don't go. I was just messing with you. Tell me everything.
don't go please i want to hear everything
Say I she is not fair?
I have more to say. But I'll speak it only if you show you truly want to hear it. Do you desire to hear me praise Cressida?
I've got plenty more. But I'll only say it if you actually want to hear it. Do you?
i have more but you gotta ask do you want to hear?
I do not care whether you do or no. She’s a fool to stay behind her
father. Let her to the Greeks; and so I’ll tell her the next time I see
her. For my part, I’ll meddle nor make no more i’ the matter.
I will indeed hear you. Speak on, and let it cut through my heart with as much pain as you wish. I can take it.
Yeah, I want to hear it. Go ahead. Say whatever hurts. I can take it.
yes please say it all let it hurt i can take it
Pandarus—
Then I will tell you about her. But first, know this: your suffering now is nothing compared to the sweetness you'll experience when you finally have her. In the meantime, your pain is your payment for that future pleasure.
Alright then. I'll tell you about her. Just know this: all the pain you're feeling right now is basically the price you're paying for what comes later. And it's worth it.
pay now with pain enjoy later with her that's the deal
Not I.
I'll describe her to you. She is as golden as the sun, as bright as Venus rising from the sea. Her voice is like music that makes the gods themselves pause to listen. Every man in Troy who sees her falls into the same trance you're in now.
Check it out: she's like gold, she's like Venus coming out of the ocean. Her voice—man, it could stop the gods. Every single guy in Troy has the same problem you do when he sees her.
she's golden she's like venus her voice stops time every man falls for her
Sweet Pandarus—
Why do you describe her beauty to me when I already know it burns me? You're not praising her—you're torturing me. Is this what you do? Praise my beloved to other men while I watch?
Why are you telling me this like I don't already feel it? You're making me crazy. Do you go around praising her to every other guy too while I'm stuck here?
stop describing her i already know i feel it i burn do you tell this to other guys?
Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and
there an end.
I tell no other man. You are the only one worthy of hearing such praises. She is yours alone—in your heart, at least.
Nah, I don't tell anybody else. You're the only one I waste my breath on. She's all yours—at least in your imagination.
you're the only one i tell she's yours in your head
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 starv’d 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 woo’d 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 call’d the wild and wandering flood;
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.
I understand you fully. I am your ship, and I will sail you to that pearl. But remember: the voyage is long, and the waters are deep. You must trust me completely.
Got it. I'm your ship. I'll get you there. But just remember—it's a long trip and the sea's rough. You gotta trust me the whole way.
i'm your ship i'll get you there long voyage deep water trust me
Aeneas is the practical soldier — brief, informational, no-nonsense. He's always just arrived from somewhere important.
How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore not afield?
Your soul? I want no such thing. All I ask is that when you reach your pearl and find that she is not what you imagined, remember that I warned you. The merchant's voyage is long, and sometimes the treasure is not worth the cost.
Your soul? I don't want that. I just want you to remember—when you finally get to her and realize she's not what you thought, remember that I told you so. Sometimes the trip's not worth what you find at the end.
i don't want your soul just remember when you get there it might not be what you expected
Troilus's throwaway line — 'Helen must needs be fair, / When with your blood you daily paint her cheeks' — is one of the most corrosive observations in the play. It takes the foundational premise of the Trojan War (Helen is beautiful enough to fight over) and exposes it as circular logic: she is beautiful because we say she is, and we say she is because we've already paid too much to say otherwise. The war's justification (Helen's beauty) is sustained by the war itself. This is not Troilus at his most romantic — it's Troilus at his most cynical, and that cynicism sits uncomfortably alongside his rapturous love poetry a few lines earlier. Shakespeare is already complicating his protagonist in the first scene.
Because not there. This woman’s answer sorts,
For womanish it is to be from thence.
What news, Aeneas, from the field today?
You speak in riddles and prophecies. I care not. She IS what I imagine, and more. Take me to her, Pandarus, and I will prove it to you.
You're talking in riddles. I don't care. She's everything I think she is and more. Get me to her and I'll show you.
you speak riddles i don't care she's exactly what i dream take me now
That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
We shall see. For now, come. I hear the sounds of the watch. Let us go before we are discovered here.
We'll see about that. Come on, though. I hear people coming. We gotta get out of here.
we'll see come on i hear footsteps we gotta go
By whom, Aeneas?
Yes, let us away.
Right, let's get out of here.
let's go
Troilus, by Menelaus.
Come along then. Let me bring you to where you can watch her unseen. There's a place where she walks in the evening, and if we are careful, you can observe her without being noticed.
Alright, let's go. I know a spot where you can see her without her knowing. She walks by there some evenings, and if we're sneaky, you can watch her go by.
follow me i know a place you can see her without her knowing
Let Paris bleed: ’tis but a scar to scorn;
Paris is gor’d with Menelaus’ horn.
Paris has been wounded—struck—by Menelaus's weapon, and the wound runs as deep as any arrow to the heart. He, too, bleeds for his love.
Word is Paris just got stabbed by Menelaus. And yeah, Paris is paying the price for stealing Helen—the same way all of us are paying for love.
paris got cut by menelaus blood for blood love costs everything
Hark what good sport is out of town today!
Paris wounded? I suppose that is significant. The war continues, and men fall. But tell me—is he badly hurt?
Paris is down? I guess that matters. Yeah, people get hurt in wars. So is it bad?
paris got hurt i guess that's bad will he be okay?
Better at home, if ‘would I might’ were ‘may.’
But to the sport abroad. Are you bound thither?
He will live, though the wound will pain him for some time. But now we must think of our own business. Come, shall we go?
He'll be fine, but it'll hurt for a while. Anyway, we've got our own stuff to deal with. Come on?
he'll recover whatever we got our own problems let's go
In all swift haste.
Yes, let us go. The war outside these walls can wait. My own battle cannot.
Yeah, let's get out of here. That war outside can wait. My thing is right now.
let's go the war can wait my battle can't
Come, go we then together.
Then come with me.
Then come on.
come
The Reckoning
The play opens not with epic heroism but with a prince refusing to put on his armor because he's pining for a girl. Troilus is so besotted with Cressida that the Trojan War feels like a distraction. Pandarus — who is supposed to be helping the courtship — is more interested in complaining about his own unappreciated efforts. The audience is left with a queasy feeling: the greatest war in history, reduced to this.
If this happened today…
Imagine a soldier at a base during active combat who won't leave his bunk because he can't stop texting his girlfriend back home. His roommate — who has been DM-ing the girlfriend on his behalf — is now sulking because he's not getting enough credit. News arrives that another soldier has been hurt in the field. The lovesick soldier shrugs and heads out. That's the Trojan War, apparently.