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EURIPIDES.
Lo, these I behold, twain yoked as one
In love, in sorrow, afront of the hall:
For the vote is cast and the doom forth gone.
O woeful mother, O hapless son,
Who must die since her master hath humbled his thrall,
Though nought death-worthy hast thou, child, done, 500
That in condemnation of kings thou shouldst fall!
Andromache.
(Str.)
Lo, blood my wrists red-staining
From cruel bonds hard-straining,
Lo, feet the grave's brink gaining!
Molossus.
O mother, 'neath thy wing
I crouch where death-shades gather.
Andromache.
Death!—Phthians, name it rather
Butchery!
Molossus.
O my father,
Help to thy loved ones bring!
Andromache.
There, darling, shalt thou rest 510
Pillowed upon my breast,
Where corpse to corpse shall cling.
