Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.
Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field. Never go home; here starve we out the night.
stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field. never go home; here starve we out the night.
stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field. never go home;
Hector is slain.
Hector is slain.
hector is slain.
hector is slain.
The Greeks have won, Troy is falling, but the victory is hollow. Helen, the ostensible cause, is still Helen. Hector is dead. Nobody has gained anything except a casualty count. The play suggests that war generates its own meaning — that there never was any meaningful cause to begin with.
Hector! The gods forbid!
Hector! The gods forbid!
hector! the gods forbid!
hector! the gods forbid!
He’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail,
In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field.
Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed.
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.
He’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field. Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed. 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.
he’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, in beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field. frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed. 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.
he’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, in beastly
My lord, you do discomfort all the host.
My lord, you do discomfort all the host.
my lord, you do discomfort all the host.
my lord, you do discomfort all the host.
You understand me not that tell me so.
I do not speak of flight, of fear of death,
But dare all imminence that gods and men
Address their dangers in. Hector is gone.
Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?
Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d
Go in to Troy, and say there ‘Hector’s dead.’
There is a word will Priam turn to stone;
Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,
Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word,
Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away;
Hector is dead; there is no more to say.
Stay yet. You vile abominable tents,
Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,
Let Titan rise as early as he dare,
I’ll through and through you. And, thou great-siz’d coward,
No space of earth shall sunder our two hates;
I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts.
Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go;
Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
You understand me not that tell me so. I do not speak of flight, of fear of death, But dare all imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone. Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d Go in to Troy, and say there ‘Hector’s dead.’ There is a word will Priam turn to stone; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word, Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away; Hector is dead; there is no more to say. Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare, I’ll through and through you. And, you great-siz’d coward, No space of earth shall sunder our two hates; I’ll haunt you like a wicked conscience still, That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts. Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go; Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
you understand me not that tell me so. i do not speak of flight, of fear of death, but dare all imminence that gods and men address their dangers in. hector is gone. who shall tell priam so, or hecuba? let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d go in to troy, and say there ‘hector’s dead.’ there is a word will priam turn to stone; make wells and niobes of the maids and wives, cold statues of the youth; and, in a word, scare troy out of itself. but, march away; hector is dead; there is no more to say. stay yet. you vile abominable tents, thus proudly pight upon our phrygian plains, let titan rise as early as he dare, i’ll through and through you. and, you great-siz’d coward, no space of earth shall sunder our two hates; i’ll haunt you like a wicked conscience still, that mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts. strike a free march to troy. with comfort go; hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
you understand me not that tell me so. i do not speak of
Shakespeare ends this bitter play with Pandarus turning to the audience and addressing them as fellow members of the 'hold-door trade' — fellow pimps and bawds. It is one of the most extraordinary endings in all of Shakespeare: not a restoration of order but a dissolution of the boundary between stage and audience. We have been complicit in everything we've watched. The diseases Pandarus bequeaths us are the diseases of appetite, exploitation, and voyeurism. We wanted to watch. We got what we paid for.
But hear you, hear you!
But hear you, hear you!
but hear you, hear you!
but hear you, hear you!
Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame
Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!
Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame Pursue your life, and live aye with your name!
hence, broker-lackey. ignominy and shame pursue your life, and live aye with your name!
hence, broker-lackey. ignominy and shame pursue your life,
A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! Thus is the poor
agent despis’d! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work,
and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so lov’d, and the
performance so loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me
see—
Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing
Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;
And being once subdu’d in armed trail,
Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.
Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths.
As many as be here of Pandar’s hall,
Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall;
Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,
Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.
Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,
Some two months hence my will shall here be made.
It should be now, but that my fear is this,
Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.
Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases,
And at that time bequeath you my diseases.
A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! Thus is the poor agent despis’d! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so lov’d, and the performance so loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see— Full merrily the humble-bee does sing Till he has lost his honey and his sting; And being once subdu’d in armed trail, Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths. As many as be here of Pandar’s hall, Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall; Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, Though not for me, yet for your aching bones. Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, Some two months hence my will shall here be made. It should be now, but that my fear is this, Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss. Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases.
a goodly medicine for my aching bones! o world! world! thus is the poor agent despis’d! o traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! why should our endeavour be so lov’d, and the performance so loathed? what verse for it? what instance for it? let me see— full merrily the humble-bee does sing till he has lost his honey and his sting; and being once subdu’d in armed trail, sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths. as many as be here of pandar’s hall, your eyes, half out, weep out at pandar’s fall; or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, though not for me, yet for your aching bones. brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, some two months hence my will shall here be made. it should be now, but that my fear is this, some galled goose of winchester would hiss. till then i’ll sweat and seek about for eases, and at that time bequeath you my diseases.
a goodly medicine for my aching bones! o world! world! thus
The Reckoning
The play's final scene refuses comfort. Hector is dead, dragged behind a horse. Troilus does not weep — he howls for vengeance. Troy is doomed. When Pandarus shuffles in for sympathy, Troilus dismisses him with withering contempt. And then Pandarus, alone on stage, delivers his extraordinary epilogue: a direct address to the audience framing them as fellow members of the 'hold-door trade,' fellow bawds and traders in the flesh. The play ends not with tragedy but with bitter comedy, not with dignity but with disease. Shakespeare refuses the epic conclusion.
If this happened today…
After the worst loss of the war, a soldier announces the news of a hero's death to his comrades. He rails against the universe and swears revenge. A former associate tries to offer comfort; the soldier drives him away. The associate addresses the camera directly: a wry, exhausted monologue about how nobody appreciates the go-between.