Rejoice, O sons of Atreus, and do thou,
According to thy wont, glad tidings bear
To thy companions: Hector's son is dead.
Ulysses: What proof have we that this thy word is true?
Andromache: May thy proud victor's strongest threat befall,
And bring my death with quick and easy stroke;600
May I be buried in my native soil,
May earth press lightly on my Hector's bones:
According as my son, deprived of light,
Amidst the dead doth lie, and, to the tomb