With frenzied step, and, clean of sense bereft,675
Strikes deadly blows but feels no counter-stroke:
So will I rush against ye in defense
Of Hector's tomb, and perish, if I must,
An ally of his shade.
Ulysses [to attendants]: Do ye delay,
And do a woman's tears and empty threats
And outcry move you? Speed the task I bid.680
Andromache [struggling with attendants]: Destroy me first! Oh, take my life instead!
[The attendants roughly thrust her away.]