 | Troades ; or The Royal Captives |  |
Scene I.
ANDROMACHE, SENEX, ASTYANAX mute.Andromache.
Why tear you thus your Hair, and weeping beat
Your wretched Breasts, ye Phrygian Dames? We yet
Suffer but lightly, if we suffer what
Is only to be wept. Troy fell but late
To you, to me long since. When in our view
Cruel Achilles at his Chariot drew
My Hector's Limbs; whilst with a Weight unknown
The trembling Axletree did seem to groan.
Then, then was Troy o'erthrown, then Ilium fell;
Sense of that Grief makes me unsensible.
And now by Death freed from Captivity
I'd follow Hector; but this Boy here, he
Witholds me; he (sweet Child) my Will restrains,
And from a much-desired Death detains.
'Tis he that makes me yet the Gods intreat;
He to my Griefs a longer time hath set.
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The greatest Comfort in my Misery,
Security from Fear; no place doth rest
For happier Fortune with the worst opprest
And saddest Miseries: “For to fear still,
“When Hope hath left us, is the worst of Ill.
Senex.
What sudden Fear does thy sad Mind surprize?
Andromache.
From our great Ills still greater Ills arise.
Nor yet can Iliums fatal Woes have end.
Senex.
What further Miseries does Heaven intend?
Andromache.
Hell's open'd; and our Foes, that we might ne'er
Want Terrour, rising from their Graves appear.
And can this only to the Greeks befall?
Sure Death is equally the same to all.
That common Fear all Phrygians doth distress;
But my sad Dream doth me alone oppress.
Senex.
Declare, what did thy dreadful Dream present?
Andromache.
Two parts of quiet Night were almost spent,
And now the Seven Triones had wheel'd round
Their glittering Wain, when Rest (a Stranger found
To my afflicted Thoughts) in a short Sleep
Upon my wearied Eyes did gently creep,
(If such Amaze of Mind yet Sleep may be.)
Strait to my thinking I did Hector see.
Not such, as when against the Argives bent
On Grecian Ships, Idæan Flames he sent;
Nor such, when he his Foes with slaughter strook,
And real Spoils from false Achilles took.
Nor did his sprightly Eyes with Lightning glance,
But with a sad dejected Countenance
Like mine, he stood; his Hair all soil'd and wet,
(It joyed me though, even such to see him yet.)
His Head then shaking, thus at length he spake;
Awake, my dear Andromache, awake,
And quickly hence Astyanax convey;
Let him be closely hid; no other way
Is left to save him: Thy sad Cries forbear.
Griev'st thou Troy's fall'n? Would God it wholly were.
Quickly dispatch, and to some secret place
Convey this last small Hopes of all our Race.
Sleep from my Senses a cold Horrour shook,
When staring round with an affrighted Look,
Wretch, I (my Child forgot) for Hector sought;
But lo the fleeting shadow, whilst I thought
To have embrac'd it, fled. O my dear Joy,
True Bloud of thy great Sire, sole Hopes of Troy!
Unhappy Issue of too fam'd a Race!
Too like thy Father; even such a Face
My Hector had; his Gait such, so he bare
His conq'ring Arms; so did his curled Hair
Part on his threatning Forehead, so from's Head
Covering his Neck, 'bout his tall Shoulders spread.
O Son, too late unto thy Country born,
Too soon unto thy Mother! will that Turn,
That happy Revolution never come,
That I mey see thee build up Ilium,
And her fled Citizens reduce once more,
And to their Town and them their Name restore?
But I forget my self, and fondly crave
Too happy things: “Enough poor Captives have
“If they may live. What place Wretch, can secure
Thy Fears? Sweet Child, where shall I hide thee sure?
That late proud Palace, rich in Wealth and Fame.
Built by the Gods, worthy ev'n Envy's Aim,
Is now to a rude heap of Ashes turn'd,
All's levell'd with the Ground, the whole Town burn'd
In wastful Flames; nor doth there now abide
So much of Troy as may one Infant hide.
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Their glittering Wain, when Rest (a Stranger found
To my afflicted Thoughts) in a short Sleep
Upon my wearied Eyes did gently creep,
(If such Amaze of Mind yet Sleep may be.)
Strait to my thinking I did Hector see.
Not such, as when against the Argives bent
On Grecian Ships, Idæan Flames he sent;
Nor such, when he his Foes with slaughter strook,
And real Spoils from false Achilles took.
268
But with a sad dejected Countenance
Like mine, he stood; his Hair all soil'd and wet,
(It joyed me though, even such to see him yet.)
His Head then shaking, thus at length he spake;
Awake, my dear Andromache, awake,
And quickly hence Astyanax convey;
Let him be closely hid; no other way
Is left to save him: Thy sad Cries forbear.
Griev'st thou Troy's fall'n? Would God it wholly were.
Quickly dispatch, and to some secret place
Convey this last small Hopes of all our Race.
Sleep from my Senses a cold Horrour shook,
When staring round with an affrighted Look,
Wretch, I (my Child forgot) for Hector sought;
But lo the fleeting shadow, whilst I thought
To have embrac'd it, fled. O my dear Joy,
True Bloud of thy great Sire, sole Hopes of Troy!
Unhappy Issue of too fam'd a Race!
Too like thy Father; even such a Face
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His conq'ring Arms; so did his curled Hair
Part on his threatning Forehead, so from's Head
Covering his Neck, 'bout his tall Shoulders spread.
O Son, too late unto thy Country born,
Too soon unto thy Mother! will that Turn,
That happy Revolution never come,
That I mey see thee build up Ilium,
And her fled Citizens reduce once more,
And to their Town and them their Name restore?
But I forget my self, and fondly crave
Too happy things: “Enough poor Captives have
“If they may live. What place Wretch, can secure
Thy Fears? Sweet Child, where shall I hide thee sure?
270
Built by the Gods, worthy ev'n Envy's Aim,
Is now to a rude heap of Ashes turn'd,
All's levell'd with the Ground, the whole Town burn'd
In wastful Flames; nor doth there now abide
So much of Troy as may one Infant hide.
What place would fittest serve for my intent?
Hard by's my Husbands stately Monument,
Which ev'n the Enemy doth reverence,
Which with much Cost, nor less Magnificence,
(On his own Sorrows too too prodigal)
Old Priam built; there I may best of all
Intrust him with his Sire.—A cold Sweat flows
O'er all my Limbs, my Mind distracted grows,
And dreads the Omen of the dismal place.
Hard by's my Husbands stately Monument,
Which ev'n the Enemy doth reverence,
Which with much Cost, nor less Magnificence,
(On his own Sorrows too too prodigal)
Old Priam built; there I may best of all
Intrust him with his Sire.—A cold Sweat flows
O'er all my Limbs, my Mind distracted grows,
And dreads the Omen of the dismal place.
Senex.
“Oft a suppos'd Destruction (in this case)
“Men from a real Ruine hath preserv'd.
No other Hope of Safety is reserv'd.
A great and fatal Weight on him doth lie,
The Greatness of his own Nobility.
Andromache.
Pray Heav'n no one discover or betray him.
Senex.
Let there be none to witness where you lay him.
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How if the Enemy demand the Boy?
Senex.
Say, He was murder'd in insubverted Troy.
Andromache.
What boots it to lie hid a while, that past,
To fall into their cruel Hands at last?
Senex.
Despair not, hope for better Fate: “The first
“Charge of the Victors Fury is the worst.
Andromache.
Alas, what should we hope, if he can ne'er
Be kept conceal'd without apparent Fear?
Senex.
“Choice of their Safety the Secure may make,
“Those in distress must hold of any take.
Andromache.
What desert place or unfrequented Land
Will give thee safe Repose? What friendly Hand
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O thou who always didst, thy own now shield,
Great Hector! This dear Treasure from thy Wife
Receive, let thy dead Ashes guard his Life.
Come, Child, enter this Tomb; back why dost start?
Scorn'st thou to lurk in Holes? His Fathers Heart
In him I see; he shames to fear.—Quit, quit
Thy Princely Thoughts now, and take such as fit
Thy present state. See all of Ilium
That's left, a Child, a Captive, and a Tomb.
Submit to Heavens Decree, nor fear to enter
Thy Fathers Monument; go, boldly venture.
There, if on Wretches Fates Compassion have,
Thou'lt Safety find; if Death they give, a Grave.
Senex.
He's hid: but lest thy Fears should him betray,
Remove some distance hence another way.
Andromache.
“The nearer that we fear, we fear the less:
But if you please, let us withdraw—
Senex.
Whist! Peace:
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The Cephalenian Prince this way does bend.
Andromache.
Cleave, Earth! and thou, dear Spouse, rend up the Ground
From lowest Hell, and in that dark Profound
Hide our Loves Pledge. He comes, he comes, his Pace
And Looks speak Plots; there's Mischief in his Face.
| Troades ; or The Royal Captives | |