Her sighs; with restless step, now here, now there,
She wanders, and she strains her anxious ears
To catch some whispered word. 'Tis evident,
She more by present fear than grief is swayed.
So must I ply her with the subtlest art.
[To Andromache.]
When others mourn, 'tis fit in sympathy
To speak with kindred grief; but thou, poor soul,
I bid rejoice that thou hast lost thy son,620
Whom cruel fate awaited; for 'twas willed