Shall these poor boyish hands build Troy again? 740
No hopes indeed hath Troy, if such her hopes.
So low the Trojans lie, there's none so weak
That he need fear our power. Doth lofty thought
Of mighty Hector nerve his boyish heart?
What valor can a fallen Hector stir?
When this our Troy was lost, his father's self
Would then have bowed his lofty spirit's pride;
For woe can bend and break the proudest soul. 745
If punishment be sought, some heavier fate
Let him endure; upon his royal neck
Let him support the yoke of servitude.
Must princes sue in vain for this poor boon?
Ulysses: Not I, but Calchas doth refuse thy prayer.
Andromache: O man of lies, artificer of crime, 750
By whom in open fight no foe is slain,
But by whose tricks and cunning, evil mind
The very chiefs of Greece are overthrown,
Dost thou now seek to hide thy dark intent
Behind a priest and guiltless gods? Nay, nay:
This deed within thy sinful heart was born.
Thou midnight prowler, brave to work the death 755
Of this poor boy, dost dare at length alone
To do a deed, and that in open day?
Ulysses: Ulysses' valor do the Grecians know
Full well, and all too well the Phrygians.
But we are wasting time with empty words.
The impatient ships are tugging at their chains.
Andromache: But grant a brief delay, while to my son 760
I pay the rites of woe, and sate my grief
With tears and last embrace.
Ulysses: I would 'twere mine
To spare thy tears; but what alone I may,
I'll give thee respite and a time for grief,
Then weep thy fill, for tears do soften woe. 765
Andromache [to Astyanax]: O darling pledge of love, thou only stay
Of our poor fallen house, last pang of Troy;
O thou whom Grecians fear, O mother's hope,
Alas too vain, for whom, with folly blind,
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