University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

Enter ULYSSES.
Ulysses.
Tho to promulgate a severe Decree
I come; I beg you'll be so just to me,
As not to think the rigorous Sentence mine,
But what the Votes of all the Greeks enjoyn.
Whose late Return to their lov'd Homes withstands
Great Hector's Heir: Him Destiny demands.
Still doubtful Hopes of an uncertain Peace,
And fear of Vengeance will the Greeks oppress,
Nor suffer them to lay down Arms so long
As thy Son lives, Andromache.

Andromache.
This Song
Does Calchas your great Prophet sing?

Ulysses.
Although
He had said nothing, Hector tells us so.
Whose Stock we dread: “A generous Race aspires
“Unto the Worth and Virtue of their Sires.
So the great Herds small Playfellow, which now
Sports in the Pastures with scarce budded Brow,
Strait with advanced Crest and armed Head,
Commands the Flock which late his Father led.
And so the tender Sprout of some tall Tree
Late fell'd, shoots up in a short time to be
Equal to that from whence it sprung, and lends
To Earth a Shade, to Heav'n its Boughs extends.
So the small Ashes of a mighty Fire
Carelessly left, into new Flames aspire.
“Grief does indeed Matters unjustly state,
“And makes of things but a wrong Estimate.
Yet if your Case you duly shall perpend,
You'll not think strange if after Ten Years end,
Th'old Soldier spent with Toil new Wars should fear,
And never enough ruin'd Troy; for ne'er
Can we enjoy Security of Mind,
Our selves not safe, whilst still we fear to find
Another Hector in Astyanax.
Then rid us of this Terror that thus wracks
Our Thoughts. This is the only cause of stay
Unto our Fleet, ready to wing its way.
Nor think me cruel, 'cause by Fates compell'd
I Hector's Son require; had Heav'n so will'd,
I had as soon ask'd Agamemnon's Son,
Than suffer what the Victor's self hath done.

Andromache.
Would God, dear Child, I had thee in my Hand,
Or knew thy present Fortune, or what Land
Now harbours thee; though Swords transpierc'd my Breast,
Though galling Chains my captiv'd Hands opprest,
Or Flames beset me round, they ne'er should move
My Heart to quit a Mothers Faith or Love.
Poor Infant, O where art thou? what strange Fate
Is fall'n on thee? Wandrest thou desolate
In untrac'd Fields? Or perish'dst thou, my Joy,
Amidst the Smoke and Flames of burning Troy?
Or hath the Victor in a wanton Mood
Of Cruelty plaid with thy childish Blood,
And murder'd thee in sport? Or by some Beast
Slain, do thy Limbs Idæan Vultures feast?

Ulysses.
Come, come, dissemble not; 'tis had to cheat
Ulysses: Know we can the Plots defeat
Of Mothers although Goddesses. Away
With these vain Shifts, and where thy Son is, say.

Andromache.
Where's Hector? Priam? all the Trojans? You
For one ask, I for all.

Ulysses.
Torture shall scrue,
Since our Persuasions cannot gain a free,
A forc'd Confession from thee.

Andromache.
Alas she
Is 'gainst the worst of Fate secured still,
That die not only can, but ought, and will.

Ulysses.
These Boasts at Deaths approach will quickly fly.

Andromache.
No, Ithacus; if me thou'dst terrifie,
Threaten me Life, for Death's my wish.

Ulysses.
Fire, Blows,
And Tortures shall enforce thee to disclose
The Secrets of thy Breast. “Oft-times we see
“Severity works more than Lenity.

Andromache.
Doom me to Flames, dissect with Wounds, and try
All torturing Arts that witty Cruelty
Did e'er devise; Thirst, Famine, all Plagues, through
My Bowels burning Irons thrust; or muc
Me up in some dark noisom Dungeon: And
(If yet you think not these enough) command
Whatever Cruelties on captiv'd Foes
A haughty barbarous Victor dare impose:
No Tortures e'er shall a Confession wrest,
Nor Terrors daunt my stout Maternal Brest.

Ulysses.
This obstinate Love thou to thy Child dost bear
Warns all the Greeks to like parental Care.
After a War so far, so long, less I
Shold fear the Ills Calchas does prophecy.
Fear'd I but for my self: But 'tis not us
Thou threatst alone, but my Telemachus.

Andromache.
And must I Comfort then afford my Foes
Against my Will? I must.—Sorrow disclose
Thy hidden Griefs. Now ye Atrides, chear!
And be thou still to Greeks the Messenger
Of happy News, Great Hector's Son is dead.

Ulysses.
Where be the Proofs may make this credited?

Andromache.
So fall on me what e'er the Victor's Rage
May threat; so Fates to my maturer Age
An easie close; and where I had my Birth
Afford me Burial: So may the Earth
Lie light on Hector's Bones, as he bereav'd
Of Light lies 'mongst the Dead, and hath receiv'd
The dues of Funeral.

Ulysses.

Andromache.
My Heart faints, Fear shakes all my Joynts, a cold
Congealing Frost upon my Blood lays hold.

Ulysses.
See, see, she trembles; this must be the way.
Her Fears a Mothers Love in her betray.
I'll fright her further yet.—Go, search with speed
This Foe, that by his Mothers Fraud is hid,
This onely Plague of Greece; find him where'er
He lies.—So, have y'him? bring him here.
Why lookst thou back and tremblest?—Now he dies.

[To himself.
Andromache.
Would God this Fear from present grounds did rise;
'Las, 'tis with us habitual. “The Mind
“From what it long hath learnt is late declin'd.

Ulysses.
Since thy Sons better Fate prevented hath
The lustral Sacrifice, thus Calchas saith,
Our Fleet may hope return if we appease
With Hector's Ashes the incensed Seas,
And raze his Monument unto the Ground.
Now since the Son by Death a way hath found
To scape the Justice of his destin'd Doom.
We must exact it from his Father's Tomb.

Andromache.
What shall I do? My Mind a double Fear
Distracts; here my poor Child, the Ashes there
Of my dear Husband. Which shall I first prize?
Bear witness, ye relentless Deities,
And thy blest Manes, real Gods to me!
Nought, Hector, in my Son I pleasing see
But thy self only: Long then may he live
Thy Representative.—And shall I give
My Husbands Ashes to the Waves? O'er vast
Seas suffer that his rifled Bones be cast?
Let t'other rather die.—And canst thou be
Spectatress of thy own Childs Tragedy?
See him thrown headlong from the Tower's steep height?
I can and will, rather than Hector yet
Be after Death the Victor's Spoil again.
Think yet this lives, hath Sense, can feel his Pain,
Whilst t'other Fates from Ills secured have.
Why staggerest thou? resolve strait which to save.
Ingrateful, doubt'st thou? There thy Hector is.
Mistaken Wretch, either is Hector: This
Yet young and living, who in time may be
Th'Avenger of his Father's Death—Still we
Cannot save both.—Resolve o'th' two howe'er
To save him yet whom most the Grecians fear.

Ulysses.
The Prophet's Words shall be fulfill'd; the place
I will demolish.

Andromache.
Which ye sold.

Ulysses.
Deface
The Monument.

Andromache.
The Faith of Gods and thee,
Achilles, we appeal to. Pyrrhus, see
Thy Father's Gift made good.

Ulysses.
Down it shall go,
And with its Ruines the wide Champain strow.

Andromache.
No Wickedness, ye Greeks, have ye refrain'd,
But this alone; Temples you have profan'd,
And Gods propitious to you; yet ye spar'd
The Mansions of the Dead. I am prepar'd
To hinder their intent, and will oppose
With weak unarmed Hands these armed Foes.
Anger and Indignation strengthen me!
Penthesilea-like I'll 'mongst them flie,
Or mad Agave, that the Woods did trace,
Shaking her Thyrsus with a frantick pace,
Dealing dire Wounds insensibly, and by
Defending bear his Ashes company.

Ulysses.
What does a Womans Passion move your Hearts,
And vainer Cries? On Slaves, and ply your parts.

Andromache.
First by your bloody Hands let me be slain.
Up from Avernus! Break thy fatal Chain!
Rise, Hector! Rise! Ulysses to subdue,
Thy Ghost alone will be sufficient. View
How Arms he brandishes! How Flames do fly
From his stout Hands! See y' him? Or is it I
That see him only?

Ulysses.
Down with't to the ground.

Andromache.
What dost? Wilt see one Ruine then confound
Father and Son? Perhaps my Prayers may yet
Appease them; strait resolve, or else the Weight
O'th' falling Tomb will crush thy Child to death.
First lose he any where his wretched Breath,
Or e'er the Father the Son's Ruine be,
Or Son the Father's.—Thus, Ulysses, we
Low as thy Knees fall, and beneath thy Feet
These Hands (which yet no Mans e'er touch'd) submit.
Pity a Mothers Woes, with Patience hear
Her pious Plaints, and lend a Gentle Ear.
“And how much higher Heav'n hath advanc'd thy state,
“So much the less depress a Wretches Fate.
“When to the miserable we extend
“Our Charity, we unto Fortune lend.
So to the chast Embraces of thy Wife
May'st thou in peace return, and Fates the Life
Of old Laertes, till that day extend.
So may thy Son, thy Age's hope, transcend
Thy Hopes and Wishes, live more Years to see
Than hath his Grandsire, wiser prove than thee.
O pity! All my Comfort's in this Boy.

Ulysses.
Produce him first, then what you ask enjoy.