University of Virginia Library

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.