Old Man: Now check thy words awhile, thy mourning cease;
For hither bends the Ithacan his course.
Andromache [with a final appealing look toward the tomb]: Yawn deep, O earth, and thou, my husband, rend
To even greater depths thy tomb's deep cave,520
And hide the sacred trust I gave to thee
Within the very bosom of the pit.
Now comes Ulysses, grave and slow of tread;
Methinks he plotteth mischief in his heart.
[Enter Ulysses.]
Ulysses: As harsh fate's minister, I first implore