Scene II
Andromache, Ulysses with a retinue of warriors. [The old man withdraws.]
Ulysses. Coming a messenger of cruel fate,
I pray you deem not mine the bitter words 535
I speak, for this is but the general voice
Of all the Greeks, too long from home detained
By Hector's child: him do the fates demand.
The Greeks can hope for but a doubtful peace,
Fear will compel them still to look behind 540
Nor lay aside their armor, while thy child,
Andromache, gives strength to fallen Troy.
So prophesies the god's interpreter;
And had the prophet Calchas held his peace,
Hector had spoken; Hector and his son 545
I greatly fear: those sprung of noble race
Must needs grow great. With proudly lifted head
And haughty neck, the young and hornless bull
Leads the paternal herd and rules the flock;
And when the tree is cut, the tender stalk 550
Soon rears itself above the parent trunk,
Shadows the earth, and lifts its boughs to heaven;
The spark mischance has left from some great fire,
Renews its strength; like these is Hector's son.
If well you weigh our act, you will forgive, 555
Though grief is harsh of judgment. We have spent
Ten weary winters, ten long harvests spent
In war; and now, grown old, our soldiers fear,
Even from fallen Troy, some new defeat.
'Tis not a trifling thing that moves the Greeks, 560
But a young Hector; free them from this fear;
This cause alone holds back our waiting fleet,
This stops the ships. Too cruel think me not,
By lot commanded Hector's son to seek;
I sought Orestes once; with patience bear 565
What we ourselves have borne.
Andromache. Alas, my son,
Would that thou wert within thy mother's arms!
Would that I knew what fate encompassed thee,
What region holds thee, torn from my embrace!
Although my breast were pierced with hostile spears, 570
My hands bound fast with wounding chains, my side
By biting flame were girdled, not for this
Would I put off my mother-guardianship!
What spot, what fortune holds thee now, my son?
Art thou a wanderer in an unknown land, 575
Or have the flames of Troy devoured thee?
Or does the conqueror in thy blood rejoice?
Or, snatched by some wild beast, perhaps thou liest
On Ida's summit, food for Ida's birds?
Ulysses. No more pretend. Thou mayst not so deceive 580
Ulysses; I have power to overcome
A mother's wiles, although she be divine.
Put by thy empty plots; where is thy son?
Andromache. Where is my Hector? Where the Trojan host?
Where Priam? Thou seek'st one, I seek them all. 585
Ulysses. What thou refusest willingly to tell,
Thou shalt be forced to say.
Andromache. She rests secure
Who can, who ought, nay, who desires to die.
Ulysses. Near death may put an end to such proud boast.
Andromache. Ulysses, if thou hop'st through fear to force590
Andromache to speak, threat longer life;
Death is to me a wished-for messenger.