University of Virginia Library

Act III.

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.
And though my greatest Comfort, took from me
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.

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.

Andromache.
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
Protect us? To our Fears who'll Comfort yield?
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:
Madam, your sad Complaints a while suspend,
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.

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.

Scene III.

ULYSSES, ANDROMACHE, ASTYANAX.
Andromache.
Forth from the hollow Entrals of the Tomb
Thou wretched Theft of thy sad Mother come!
The Terror of a Thousand Ships here see,
Ulysses, this poor Child! down on thy Knee,
Thy Lord, with humble Reverence adore,
And Mercy, with submissive Hands, implore.
Nor think it shame for Wretches to submit
To what e'er Fortune wills; the Thoughts now quit
Of thy great Ancestors, nor Priam call
To mind, nor his great Pow'r; forget it all,
And Hector too: assume a Captives state.
And though unsensible of thy own Fate,
Poor Wretch, thou be, yet from our Sense of Woes
Example take, weep as thy Mother does.
'Tis not the first time Troy hath seen her Prince
Shed Tears: So Priam, when a Child long since
The Wrath of stern Alcides pacifi'd;
He who so fierce was, who in strength outvy'd
Ev'n Monsters, who from Hell's forc'd Gates could yet
Through ways impervious open a Retreat:
Quell'd by the Tears of his small Enemy;
Resume (says he) thy former Royalty,
And in thy Father's Throne and Empire reign.
But Faith more firmly than he did, maintain.
Happy that such a Victor him did seize!
Learn thou the gentle Wrath of Hercules.
Or only please his Arms? See 'fore thine Eyes
No less a Suppliant than that Suppliant lies;
And begs but only Life, his Crown and State
He leaves to Fortune and the Will of Fate.

Ulysses.
Trust me the Mothers Sorrow moves me much,
But nearer me the Grecian Mothers touch,
To whose no little Grief this Child aspires.

Andromache.
And shall he then the Ruines which these Fires
Have made, repair? These Hands erect Troy's Fall?
Poor are the hopes she has if these be all.
We Trojans are not so subdu'd, that yet
We should to any be a Fear: is't Great
Hector in him you look at? Think withal,
That Hector yet was dragg'd 'bout Ilium's Wall.
Nay, he himself, did he now live to see
Troy's Fate, would of an humbler Spirit be.
“Great Minds by pressures great Ills are broke.
Or would you punish? Than a slavish Yoke
What to free Necks more grievous? let him bring
His Mind to serve. This who'll deny a King?

Ulysses.
Not we, but Calchas this denies to thee.

Andromache.
O thou damn'd Author of all Villany!
Thou, by whose Valour none yet ever dy'd,
Whose Treacheries the Greeks themselves have try'd.
The Prophet and th'abused Deities
Dost thou pretend? No, 't's thine own Enterprize,
Thou base Night-Soldier. Thou whose Manhood's Proof
The Sun ne'er witness'd; only stout enough
To kill a Child: Now thou may'st brag and say,
Thou hast dar'd something yet in open day.

Ulysses.
Enough the Greeks, too well the Trojans know
Ulysses Worth; but time we cannot now
Spend in vain Talk. The Fleet does Anchor weigh.

Andromache.
Yet so much time afford us, as to pay
A Mother's last Dues to my dying Boy;
And by our strict Embraces satisfie
My greedy Sorrows.

Ulysses.
Would our Power would give
Thy Woes Relief; yet what we can receive,
As long a time as thou thy self shalt please
To grieve and weep. “Tears Sorrow's Burthen ease.

Andromache.
O thou sweet Pledge of all my hopes! the Grace
Of a now ruin'd, but once glorious Race!
Terror of Greece! the Period of all
Thy Countries Ruines! her last Funeral!
Vain Comfort of thy wretched Mother! Who
(Fondly, God knows) of Heaven did often sue,
Thou mightst in War thy Father equallize,
In Peace thy Grandsire; but Heav'n both denies.
The Ilian Sceptre thou shalt never sway,
Nor shall the Phrygian Realms thy Laws obey,
Nor conquer'd Nations stoop thy Yoke to bear.
The Greeks thou ne'er shalt foil, nor Pyrrhus e'er,
T'avenge thy Sire, at thy proud Chariot trail:
Nor with light brandish'd Arms wild Beasts assail
In the wide Forests: Nor, when e'er it falls,
Shalt solemnize Troy's chief of Festivals,
And well-train'd Troops in noble Motions lead:
Nor 'bout the sacred Altars nimbly tread;
And when exciting Notes shrill Cornets sound,
In Phrygian Temples dance an antick round.
A Death than Death it self more sad, for thee
Remains; and Trojan Walls shall something see
More woful yet than Hector dragg'd.

Ulysses.
Here close
Thy mournful Plaints; immoderate Sorrow knows
No Bounds.

Andromache.
The time we for our Tears demand,
Alas, is small; permit yet with this Hand
I close his Eyes in Life though not in Death.
Dear Child, although so young thou lose thy Breath,
Yet thou dy'st fear'd. Go, thy Troy looks for thee;
Go, and in Freedom thy free Trojans see.

Astyanax.
O pity, Mother!

Andromache.
'Las, why dost thou wring
My Hand, and to my Side (vain refuge!) cling?
As when a sucking Fawn a Lion spies,
Or roaring hears, strait to the Hind it flies:
Yet the fierce Beast frightning the Dam away,
With murdering Fangs seizes the tender Prey.
So from my Bosom will the cruel Foe
Drag thee, poor Child! Yet (Dearest) e'er thou go
Take my last Kisses, Tears, and this torn Hair;
Then to thy Father full of me repair.
Tell him, if former Passions Ghosts do move,
Nor Funeral Flames extinguish those of Love,
Hector is much to blame, to let his Wife,
Enthrall'd by Greeks, thus lead a Servile Life,
Though he lie still, Achilles yet could rise.
Take from my Head again, and from my Eyes,
These Tears and Tresses; all that now is left
Andromache, of Hector since bereft.
These Kisses to thy Father bear from me:
But leave this Robe, that may some Comfort be
(When thou art gone) to thy poor Mother; this
Did thy Sire's Tomb and sacred Ashes kiss:
So shall these Lips, if any Reliques here
Of their lov'd Dust, yet unshook off, appear.

Ulysses.
She'll ne'er have done;—“Grief knows not what is fit.
Bear hence this stop of the Argolick Fleet.

CHORUS.