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.
Call my servant here; I'll take off my armor. Why should I fight in the war outside Troy's walls When I'm suffering such cruel internal conflict? Every Trojan who has control of his own heart Should go to battle; but Troilus, sadly, has no control.
Get my servant—I'm taking this armor off. Why should I be fighting outside Troy when the real battle's happening inside me? Every Trojan soldier who's got his emotions under control should head to the field; But me? I've completely lost control.
calling my servant why fight outside when the real war's in here every trojan with a heart goes to battle i don't have one
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?
Will this situation never get better?
Is this ever going to change?
will this ever get better
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 strong and skilled in their strength, Fierce in their skill and valiant in their fierceness. But I am weaker than a woman's tear, Tamer than sleep, more foolish than ignorance, Less brave than a virgin at night, And as unskilled as an untrained infant.
The Greeks are tough, and they know how to use that toughness. They're fierce because they're skilled, and fearless because they're fierce. But I'm softer than a woman's tears, More docile than sleep, more foolish than someone who doesn't know anything, Less brave than a young woman alone at night, And as clumsy as a baby who's just learning.
greeks are strong AND skilled but i'm weaker than tears tamer than sleep less brave than a nervous girl
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.
Well, I've told you enough about this already. For my part, I won't interfere or do anything further. He who wants to make a cake from wheat must wait through the grinding process.
Look, I've said enough about this. I'm staying out of it. You can't make a cake without grinding the wheat first—everything takes time.
told u enough already im out if u want cake from wheat you gotta wait for the grinding
Have I not tarried?
Haven't I already waited?
Haven't I been waiting long enough?
i've been waiting
Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
Yes, you've waited through the grinding, but now you must wait for the sifting.
Right, you've waited through that part, but now you've got to wait for the next step.
yeah the grinding but now wait for sifting
Have I not tarried?
Haven't I waited?
Haven't I already waited long enough?
haven't i waited enough
Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.
Yes, you've waited for the sifting too, but now you must wait for the rising.
That too, but now you've got to wait for the next part of the process.
and the sifting but now wait for leavening
Still have I tarried.
I've still kept waiting.
I keep waiting through everything.
still waiting
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.
Yes, you've waited for the rising, but in the word "later" there's still the kneading, the making of the cake, heating the oven, and baking it. And you must wait for the cooling too, or you might burn your lips.
Right, but there's still so much left: kneading it, shaping the cake, heating the oven, baking it. And then you have to wait for it to cool, or you'll burn yourself.
gotta wait for kneading making the cake heating oven baking and cooling or ur lips get burned
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?
Patience herself, whatever goddess she may be, Doesn't flinch less from suffering than I do. At Priam's royal table I sit, And when beautiful Cressida comes into my thoughts, I think: wait, when she comes! But when she's not there?
Even Patience herself—if she were a goddess—wouldn't endure suffering the way I do. I'm sitting at King Priam's royal table, And every time I think about beautiful Cressida, I have to stop myself and ask: wait, what am I thinking? When she's not even here?
even patience goddess doesn't suffer like i do thinking about beautiful cressida but she's not even here
Well, she look’d yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any
woman else.
Well, she looked more beautiful last night than ever I've seen her look, or any other woman.
She looked more beautiful last night than I've ever seen her—more beautiful than any woman I've ever seen.
she looked prettier last night than i've ever seen her
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.
I was about to tell you: when my heart, As if wedged with a sigh, would split in two, For fear Hector or my father would see me, I've hidden this sigh, like when the sun breaks through a storm, Buried it in the wrinkles of a smile. But sorrow that is hidden beneath apparent happiness Is like joy that fate suddenly turns to sadness.
I was going to tell you: when my heart gets so full of sighs it might split apart, Because I'm scared Hector or my father will notice, I bury that sigh in a smile, the way sunlight breaks through storm clouds. But hiding sadness behind fake happiness Is like when joy suddenly flips to heartbreak.
my heart's so full of sighs it's breaking hiding it behind a smile but sadness under fake happiness is like joy turning to heartbreak
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—
If her hair weren't somewhat darker than Helen's, there would be no comparison between the women at all. But she's my relative; I wouldn't praise her outright, as they say, but I wish somebody had heard her speak yesterday, as I did. I won't put down your sister Cassandra's intelligence, but—
If her hair were lighter like Helen's, there'd be no contest between them at all. But she's my cousin; I don't want to seem like I'm just flattering her, but seriously, somebody should've heard her talk yesterday. I'm not saying your sister Cassandra's stupid or anything, but—
if her hair were lighter than helen's no contest but she's my cousin wish u heard her talk yesterday not trashing cassandra but like
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.
Oh Pandarus! I'm telling you, Pandarus, When I tell you that my hopes are drowned, Don't reply with how many fathoms deep they're submerged. I'm telling you I'm obsessed with Cressida's love. You answer 'She is beautiful,' and then You pour into the open wound of my heart Her eyes, her hair, her face, her walk, her voice. You handle all these things in conversation. Oh, if her hand—in comparison to which all white things look like ink Writing their own shame; her hand, which is so soft That a swan's down seems rough, and sensations feel As hard as a plowman's palm!—you tell me this, And it's true when you tell me, just as it's true when I say I love her. But by saying this, instead of soothing my wounds with oil and balm, You're pressing the very knife that made the wound deeper into every cut love has given me.
Oh Pandarus! Listen to me, Pandarus. When I tell you my hopes are completely destroyed, Don't tell me exactly how deep that destruction goes. I'm telling you I'm completely obsessed with Cressida. You say 'She's beautiful,' and then you describe her to me— Her eyes, her hair, her face, the way she walks, the sound of her voice. You keep talking about all of it. And when you talk about her hand—nothing's as white or soft as her hand is, It makes everything else look rough and crude— Yes, all of this is true, and I know it when you say it, Just like it's true when I say I love her. But instead of helping me heal, you're just making it worse. You're twisting the knife in every wound love has already cut into me.
stop telling me how beautiful she is you're just making it worse every word u say about her is like twisting the knife deeper
I speak no more than truth.
I speak nothing but the truth.
I'm just telling you what's true.
im just telling the truth
Thou dost not speak so much.
You don't speak as much.
You don't say as little as the truth.
u don't speak just truth
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.
Honestly, I won't get involved. Let her be as she is. If she's beautiful, that's good for her; if she's not, she has the power to fix it herself.
Honestly, I'm staying out of this. Look, if she's beautiful, that's great for her. If she's not, that's her problem to fix.
staying out of it if she's beautiful good for her if not she can fix it
Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus!
Good Pandarus! What's happening now, Pandarus?
Pandarus! What's wrong with you?
pandarus what's up
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.
I've worked hard for nothing, thought badly of by her and thought badly of by you. I've gone back and forth between you two, but with little thanks for all my effort.
I've worked my butt off for nothing. She thinks badly of me, you think badly of me, and I've been running back and forth between you two the whole time with basically zero appreciation.
worked my ass off for nothing both of u think im bad no thanks for anything
What! art thou angry, Pandarus? What! with me?
What! Are you angry, Pandarus? What! With me?
Wait, are you seriously mad at me right now?
ur mad at me
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.
Because she's related to me, people don't think she's as beautiful as Helen. If she weren't related to me, she'd be as beautiful on a regular day as Helen is on her best day. But what do I care? I don't care even if she were dark-skinned; it's all the same to me.
Just because she's my cousin, people think she's less beautiful than Helen. If she weren't related to me, she'd be just as stunning on any day as Helen is. But honestly, I don't care. She could be any color and it wouldn't matter to me.
she's my cousin so ppl say she's not as pretty if she wasn't my cousin she'd be prettier but i don't care what she looks like
Say I she is not fair?
Did I say she isn't beautiful?
Did I say she wasn't beautiful?
did i say she wasn't pretty
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 don't care what you think. She's foolish to stay behind with her father. Let her go to the Greeks; and that's what I'll tell her the next time I see her. For my part, I won't interfere or involve myself any further.
I don't care what you think. She's an idiot for staying with her father. She should go to the Greeks; and I'm going to tell her exactly that. I'm done with this whole thing.
don't care she's dumb for staying w her dad tell her to go to greeks
Pandarus—
Pandarus—
Pandarus—
pandarus
Not I.
No.
No.
no
Sweet Pandarus—
Beloved Pandarus—
Come on, Pandarus—
pandarus please
Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and
there an end.
Please don't say anything more to me. I will leave everything as I found it, and that's final.
Please stop talking to me. I'm leaving everything exactly as it was, and I'm done.
leave me alone im leaving everything as is we're done
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.
Be quiet, you rude noises! Silence, uncivil sounds! Fools on both sides! Helen has to be beautiful, Since with your blood you paint her daily. I can't fight about this subject; It's too weak an argument for my sword. But Pandarus—oh gods, how you torment me! I can't reach Cressida except through Pandarus, And he's as difficult to persuade to woo as she is stubborn in refusing all offers. Tell me, Apollo, for the sake of your beloved Daphne, What Cressida is, what Pandarus is, and what are we? Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl. Between our Troy and where she lives Let's call it the wild, wandering sea. I'm the merchant, and this sailing Pandarus Is our uncertain hope, our escort, and our ship.
Shut up, both sides! Stop your noise! You're all fools! Helen's beautiful just because you keep fighting over her. I can't even argue about this—it's beneath my sword. But Pandarus, man, you're killing me! I can only get to Cressida through Pandarus, And he's as hard to convince to help as she is stubborn in rejecting everyone. Apollo, for pity's sake, tell me: What is Cressida? What is Pandarus? What are we in this? She's like a pearl lying in India. The sea between Troy and where she is? That's the journey. I'm the merchant trying to reach her. And Pandarus is the ship captain taking me there— My only chance, my guide, my vessel.
shut up both sides fools all of u helena's pretty bc u fight over her i can't even argue it pandarus ur killing me only way to cressida is through u she's a pearl in india u're my ship to get there
Aeneas is the practical soldier — brief, informational, no-nonsense. He's always just arrived from somewhere important.
How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore not afield?
How are you now, Prince Troilus! Why aren't you on the battlefield?
Hey, Prince Troilus! What's up? Why aren't you out there fighting?
yo troilus why u not on battlefield
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?
Because I'm not there. It fits with a woman's answer, because it's womanish to be away from there. What news, Aeneas, from the battle today?
Because I'm not there. That's about as good an answer as a woman would give—it's girly to not be there. So what's happening on the battlefield today, Aeneas?
not there that's the woman's answer what's happening on battlefield
That Paris is returned home, and hurt.
Paris has come home, and he's wounded.
Paris came back, and he's hurt.
paris came home hurt
By whom, Aeneas?
By whom, Aeneas?
Who did it to him?
who hurt him
Troilus, by Menelaus.
Troilus, by Menelaus.
Menelaus wounded him.
menelaus
Let Paris bleed: ’tis but a scar to scorn;
Paris is gor’d with Menelaus’ horn.
Let Paris bleed: it's just a scar to mock him. Paris is wounded by Menelaus' hand.
Let him bleed—it's just a wound he deserves to be embarrassed about. Menelaus got the better of Paris.
let him bleed menelaus got him
Hark what good sport is out of town today!
Listen to what great fighting there is outside town today!
Hey, have you heard the fighting happening outside town today?
theres good fighting outside town
Better at home, if ‘would I might’ were ‘may.’
But to the sport abroad. Are you bound thither?
It would be better at home, if I could only do what I wish. But let's go see the fighting outside. Are you headed there too?
I'd rather be at home if I had my way, but if we've got to go watch the fighting, let's go. You heading out there?
rather be home but let's go u heading out
In all swift haste.
In all speed.
Right away.
yeah lets go
Come, go we then together.
Come on, let's go together.
Let's head out together then.
lets go together
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.