Hecuba.
My sorrow! . . . 'Tis but what Talthybius said:
So plain a riddle, and I read it not.
Andromache.
I saw her lie, and stayed this chariot;
And raiment wrapt on her dead limbs, and beat
My breast for her.
Hecuba (to herself).
O the foul sin of it!
The wickedness! My child. My child! Again
I cry to thee. How cruelly art thou slain!
Andromache.
She hath died her death, and howso dark it be,
Her death is sweeter than my misery.
Hecuba.