University of Virginia Library

Act IV.

Scene I.

HELENA, ANDROMACHE, HECUBA, and POLYXENA.
Helena.
Wherever Hymen is unfortunate,
On whom Sighs, Mourning, Blood and Slaughter wait,
There Helen's a fit Auspex, forc'd t'extend
The Woes of ruin'd Troy beyond their End.
False News of Pyrrhus Nuptials I must bear,
Gems, and Greek Habits for his Bride to wear.
Whilst (circumvented by my treacherous Wile)
I Paris Sister of her Life beguile;
And beguil'd be she. “'Tis a Courtesie
“Unprepossess'd with fear of Death, to dye:
Why doubt'st thou to perform thy Task? “On those
“The Guilt of inforc'd Crimes lies, who impose.
Thou Female Glory of the Dardan Race!
Heaven now begins to shew a friendlier Face
To the Afflicted; does a Mate provide,
Such as not Priam could in all Troy's Pride.
For thee to lawful Hymen's sacred Rites,
The Chief of the Pelasgian Name, invites,
Who rules wide Thessaly: Thee Tethys, all
The watry Powr's, thee, hers will Thetis call,
The Seas mild Empress! Pyrrhus marry thee,
Thou Niece to Peleus shalt, and Nereus be.
Put off these sad, and festive Habits take,
Unlearn thou Captive art, and Captive make.
Thy Hair frightfully staring, recommand
To order, by some curious Dressers Hand.
This chance may raise thee to a better State;
“Captivity hath made some fortunate.

Andromache.
Was this then only wanting to our Woes?
This? To rejoyce, when Troy in Ashes glows?
O time for Nuptials fit! But who denies,
Or doubts to wed, when Helen does advise?
Helen the Bane, the Ruin, and the Pest
Of either Nation; See these Graves! where rest
Their valiant Chiefs! These Fields! 'Bout which are spread
The bared Bones, sad Reliques of their Dead.
These, these, thy Marriage scatter'd, with a flood
Of Europe's best, and Asia's bravest Blood:
Whilst thou at ease saw'st both thy Husbands fight,
Careless on which the Victory should light.
Go then, and for these Wedding Joys prepare!
For Nuptial Lights and Torches never care;
Troy's Flames will those supply. Now Troades
The Marriage Rites of Pyrrhus solemnize
As they deserve; that is, with Tears and Cries.

Helen.
Though mighty Grief no Curb, no Reason knows,
But oft hates those are sharers in its Woes;
Yet 'fore a partial Judge can I defend
My Cause; who suffer more than you pretend.
Andromache for Hector, Hecuba
For Priam, freely mourns, I closely pay
My conceal'd Sighs for Paris. 'Tis severe,
Hateful and sad, a servile Yoak to bear.
Yet that have I endur'd, these Ten Years past.
Your Houshold Gods are sack'd; Ilium laid wast.
To lose ones native Land, is a sad Curse;
To fear, like me, without Relief, yet worse.
A fellow-sufferance does your Woes asswage.
'Gainst me, the Victors both, and vanquish'd rage.
Whom you must serve, Chance yet hath scarce design'd,
I'm sure, without a Lot, a Lord to find.
You'll say I was to Troy the cause of War,
And her sad Ruin. Take what you infer,
To be a Truth; if you can prove that e'er
A Spartan Ship me to your Coasts did bear.
But if by Phrygians I a Prize was made,
And to her Judge a Gift by Venus paid,
Excuse then Paris. For our Cause, 'twill come
'Fore a rough Judge; it waits Atrides Doom.
But now, Andromache, thy Plaints laid by
A while, to bow this resolute Virgin try.
I scarce can hold from Tears.—

Andromache.
The thing is sad
That Helen weeps for; it must needs be bad.
But wherefore weeps she? say! What new Deceit?
What Mischief plots Ulysses, that grand Cheat?
Must from Idæan Rocks the Maid be cast?
Or from this Tow'r, or yond' Clifts, into vast
Seas hurld? where with his crook'd and ragged side
Lofty Sygæum does imbay the Tide?
Speak! What beneath thy Looks sly Vail is laid?
No ill, but's less, than Pyrrhus to be made
To Priam Son in Law, and Hecuba.
What Pains, what Torments, must we suffer? say!
For this from our Woes Sum may well be spar'd;
To be deceiv'd. To dye, w'are all prepar'd.

Helen.
Would Heav'n, the Gods Interpreter had doom'd
Me to have dy'd; and at Achilles Tomb
By Pyrrhus furious Hand t'have fall'n! That I
With thy sad Fate, Polyxena! might vye,
Whom Thetis Son (t'his Grave first Victim made)
Demands for Spouse in the Elysian shade.

Andromache.
See how great Joy does her high Soul express
At her declar'd Death! Royal Robes and Dress
Now she assumes, now yields t'adorn her head;
To dye she Marriage thinks, but Death to wed.
Her aged Mother yet at the Report,
Is Thunder strook; nor more can Grief support,
With this Surcharge opprest.—Courage! recall
Your Life and Spirits, Madam?—On how small
A Thread hers hang!—How little will suffice
T'ease Hecuba of all her Miseries!
She breaths, and comes t'her self again:—I find
Death to the miserable is unkind.

Hecuba
Yet lives Achilles to the Phrygians Woe?
Yet does he plague us? Is he still our Foe?
O Paris feeble Hand! his very Grave
And Ashes thirst our wretched Blood to have.
Once me a happy Troop of Children round
On every side enclos'd; enough I found
T'impart to all my Kisses; nor could tell
'Mong such a fair and numerous Issue, well
How to divide a Mother. Now, there's none
Left me but this, my sole Companion,
My Joy and Comfort in Affliction
This, this poor Girl; the last Remain of all
Hecuba's Race! she only lives to call
Me Mother.—Leave hard-temper'd Soul my Breast!
And this one Funeral after all the rest
Remit at length to me. She changes hue,
A show'r of Tears does her pale Cheeks bedew.
Rejoice dear Child! gladly Andromache,
Gladly Cassandra thus espous'd would be.

Andromache.
We, we poor Wretches, Hecuba, are most
To be deplor'd; who must on Seas be tost,
Now here, now there, and God knows whither hurry'd?
She's happy; by Fates destin'd to be bury'd
In her own Native Land.

Helen.
You'd grieve yet more
Did you but know what Lot's for you in store.

Andromache.
Is of my woes yet any Part unknown?

Helen.
The Captives Dooms th impartial Urn hath shown.

Andromache.
Whose Slave am I? Whom must I master call?

Helen.
Unto the Syrian Youth, by Lot you fall.

Andromache.
Happy Cassandra! whom Prophetic Rage
And Phœbus from the Lot does disengage.

Helen.
She's Agamemnon's Prize.

Hecuba.
Is Hecuba
By any sought for?

Helen.
You a short-liv'd Prey
Are to Ulysses, 'gainst his Will, become.

Hecuba.

CHORUS.
Of mix'd Trojans, comforting themselves by their Community of Sorrows.