[To Astyanax.]
My son, thy suppliant hands upraise,
And at the feet of this proud lord,
Bend low in prayer, nor think it base710
To suffer the lot which our fortune appoints.
Put out of mind thy regal birth,
Thy agéd grandsire's glorious rule
Of wide domain; and think no more
Of Hector, thy illustrious sire.
Be captive alone—bend the suppliant knee;715