 | The Distrest Mother |  |
SCENE VII.
Phœnix, Andromache, Cephisa, with Attendants.Andr.
Yes, ye inhumane Greeks! The Time will come;
When you shall dearly pay your bloody Deeds!
How should the Trojans hope for Mercy from you,
When thus you turn your impious Rage on Pyrrhus;
Pyrrhus the bravest Man in all your League;
The Man, whose single Valour made you Triumph.
Is my Child there?—
Ceph.
It is the Corpse of Pyrrhus.
The weeping Souldiers bear him on their Shields.
Andr.
Ill-fated Prince! Too negligent of Life!
And too unwary of the faithless Greeks!
Cut off in the fresh ripening Prime of Manhood,
Even in the Pride of Life; thy Triumphs new,
And all thy Glories in full Blossom round thee!
The very Trojans would bewail thy Fate.
Ceph.
Alass, then will your Sorrows never End!
Andr.
Oh, never! never—While I live, my Tears
Will never cease; for I was Born to Grieve.—
Give present Orders for the Funeral Pomps:
[To Phœn.
Let him be robed in all his Regal State;
Place round him every shining mark of Honour;
And let the Pile, that Consecrates his Ashes,
Rise like his Fame, and blaze above the Clouds.
| The Distrest Mother | |