Andromache: Small space for tears, Ulysses, do I ask;
Some scanty moments yet, I pray thee, grant,
That I may close his eyes though living still,
And do a mother's part.
[To Astyanax.]
Lo, thou must die,
For, though a child, thou art too greatly feared.
Thy Troy awaits thee: go, in freedom's pride,790
And see our Trojans, dead yet unenslaved.
Astyanax: O mother, mother, pity me and save!