Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.
Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Hold your ground! We still control the battlefield. Do not go home; let's endure through this night here.
Hold it! We've still got the field. Nobody's leaving—we're staying here and getting through the night.
hold ground we're still in control staying all night
Hector is slain.
Hector is killed.
Hector's dead.
hector is dead
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! May the gods prevent it!
Hector! Please no!
hector no please gods
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 is dead, and tied to the murderer's horse's tail, dragged through the shameful battlefield like a beast. Frown upon us, you heavens, show your wrath quickly. Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and gaze upon Troy's destruction. Let your punishment be swift and merciful, and do not prolong our certain ruin.
He's dead, tied to the killer's horse and dragged through the field like an animal. Come on, heavens, show your anger now. Sit there and smile at Troy's ruin. Just make our punishment quick—don't drag this destruction out.
he's dead tied to a horse dragged heaven show your wrath troy's ruined just end it fast
My lord, you do discomfort all the host.
My lord, you are breaking the spirits of all the soldiers.
Sir, you're crushing everyone's morale.
ur killing morale sir
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 misunderstand me. I do not speak of retreat or fear of death, but of facing every danger that gods and humans present. Hector is gone. Who will tell Priam or Hecuba? Whoever enters Troy and announces 'Hector is dead' will be forever cursed. Those words will petrify Priam, turn the women into fountains of tears and mourning statues, make the young men like ice; in short, terror will possess Troy. But let us march on; Hector is dead; there is nothing more. Wait—I despise you vile tents standing so proudly on our Phrygian plains. As soon as sunrise comes, I will tear through you. And you great coward Achilles, no distance will separate our hatred; I will hunt you like conscience pursues the guilty, spawning horrors as swift as madness itself. Let us march toward Troy with resolve; the promise of vengeance will conceal our anguish.
You're not getting what I mean. I'm not talking about running away or being scared to die—I'm talking about confronting whatever happens to us. Hector's gone. Somebody's got to tell Priam and Hecuba. Whoever goes into Troy and has to say 'Hector's dead' will be damned forever. That one word will shatter them—turn the king to stone, make the women weep like rivers, turn the youth into statues; basically, Troy will collapse. But we need to move; Hector is dead; end of story. Actually, hold on. I hate these tents so much, standing here like they own our land. The second the sun comes up, I'm going to rip them apart. And you, Achilles, you big coward—nothing in this world will keep me away from you. I'll follow you like guilt follows a murderer, conjuring up nightmares faster than a madman can imagine them. Let's go to Troy with hope; revenge will get us through this pain.
im not running im facing it hector's gone someone has to tell priam that word breaks everything troy's done for those tents are coming down achilles i will find u revenge keeps us alive
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 listen, listen!
Hey, wait—listen up!
wait listen
Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame
Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!
Get out of here, you servant go-between. Shame and disgrace will pursue your life, and you will always live with your name disgraced!
Get out, you pimp! Shame will follow you forever!
get lost shame on u
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 wonderful cure for my aching joints! Oh world! world! This is how the poor go-between is despised! Oh traitors and prostitutes, how eagerly you work, and how poorly you are paid! Why is our work so valued while what we do is so hated? The humble-bee sings merrily until it loses its honey and sting; once defeated, both its sweetness and its song are gone. Good flesh-traders, mark this well. All of you from my house, weep for my downfall if you can; if not, groan anyway, not for me but for your sore bones. Brothers and sisters of the brothel trade, I will make my will in about two months. It should be now, but some sickly prostitute would curse me. Until then I'll suffer and seek relief, and then leave you all my diseases.
This is just perfect—a cure for my aching joints! Man, this world! We go-betweens really get thrown away! All you pimps and hookers working so hard and barely getting paid! Why does everyone love what we do but hate how we do it? Let me put it this way: the bee's happy until it loses its honey and sting; once beaten down, it has no sweetness or song left. Hey, all you sex workers, remember this. Everyone from my place, if you can manage to cry for me, do it; if not, at least groan for your own sore joints. Fellow pimps and prostitutes, I'll be writing my will in about two months. It should be today, but I'm worried some diseased prostitute will curse me. Until then I'm going to be miserable looking for painkillers, and when I die I'm giving you all my diseases as a parting gift.
great for my joints lol world destroys go-betweens we work hard get nothing hey i'm the bee happy til i lose everything dying soon i'm leaving u my diseases
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.