Pyrrhus.
Pity of the boy!—'Tis a plot—a plot to shame me past all enduring!
First Maid.
She witched the gold out of him!
Priest.
King, King, hear me! She has witched the Queen's womb long ago, and witched the whole harvest. She has this day witched your own boy to consent to your dishonour; she has witched this mad stranger to give her gold worth twenty oxen; yea, she has witched both him and you, so that he stands up and flouts you in your hall. You are stripped naked, O King, for men and dogs to walk upon, that Hector in his grave may be merry!—Judgment, O son of Achilles, judgment!
Andromache.
Yea, judgment, my King! I, too, crave judgment. Only let not these be my judges.
Priest.