L. Annaeus Seneca's TROAS. A TRAGEDY. Translated from the Latin by J. T.  Conamur tenues grandia— Horat. 
LONDON: Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judges-Head in Chancery-lane, near Fleetstreet. 1686.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES EARL OF Shrewsbury, etc.  
My Lord,  
I Should never have ventured to expose this Trifle to the Censures of the World, had I not at the same time an Ambition to express, though not in the Work itself, at least in the Dedication of it, the ardent Desires I had to lay both It and Myself at your Lordship's Feet; being very well assured, that the sweetness of Your Disposition will pardon the many Imperfections, which the Acuteness of Your Judgement cannot but discern. This Play, my Lord being neither written by the Author, nor fitted ' by the Translator, to the Humour and Relish of the present Age, and consequently having never stood the Test of a public Theatre; would have small Encouragement to appear abroad, were it not sufficiently warranted by the Protection of Your Lordship's Name: a Name, that as it has been the Terror of France, so it is the Pride of England: a Name, that having in your Victorious Ancestors so bravely maintained the Honour and Reputation of Your Family, and Your Country, cannot but cherish as well as defend whatever flies to Its great Protection. With these Hopes, my Lord, I have presumed to inscribe the following Translation to your Lordship, hoping, that as it was the Fruit of my vacant Hours, so it will be the Diversion of yours; which is the utmost Ambition of,  
Your Lordship's most Obedient, Humble Servant, J. T.   

TO THE READER,  
Reader,  
I Was informed since the finishing of this Translation, that Seneca has been taught some time since to speak such Language as the Times afforded; But I know not why That should dischurage Me, or some better Genius (that I hope, will continue what I have but imperfectly begun) from the like Attempt, any more than Hopkins and Sternhold's Translation of David's Psalms (how blindly soever admitted and retained by the Vulgar) should deter a modern Pen from teaching him better English and Sense than They have done. I should not have presumed, after the late Earl of Rochester, to have translated the Second Chorus of this Play, had I either seen it, or heard of it before I had finished this: but since my Lord's is a Paraphrase, and Mine only a Translation, I have ventured to place my Own, with all its Imperfections, among the rest, that the whole Work may be of a Piece: neither shall I blush to own myself outdone by a Person, so much better than the Best of this Age.  
The Style of the Author, through this whole Play, is so noble, and the Moral part of it, for the generality, so good; that it is supposed by those Learned Critics, Scaliger, and Heinsius, to have been written by Seneca the Philosopher. I have endeavoured for the most part, to render Him into English as faithfully as I could, being very sensible, that to diminish any thing from so perfect a Piece, would be a great wrong to my Author; and to add any thing to it, no less presumption in myself; only where his Sentences were more pithy, and concise than either the Defect of our Tongue, or of myself, would permit me to be, I have been forced to render Him more at large: the closeness of his Language in several places being such, that what an Eminent Author has lately said of Virgil, may justly be applied to Him, that he seems to have laboured not to be Translated. The Third Chorus I was forced to shorten, the endless and fruitless Enumeration of so many several Countries, being a fit Work for a Geographer than a Poet. For the rest, Courteous Reader (for such I hope to find you,) I shall be very glad if the many Perfections of the Author can reconcile you to all the Failings of the Translator, who, as he wrote it at first to please Himself, now prints it to gratify his Friends; and for them that are not such, he neither begs their Candour, nor fears their Censure.   

Dramatis Personae.  

Grecians.  
Agamemnon, General of the Grecian Army.  
Pyrrhus, Son to Achilles.  
Ulysses, a Grecian Commander.  
Talthybius, an Officer in the Army.  
Calchas, a Priest.  
Helena, Wife to Menelaus, and Mistress to Paris.   

Trojans.  
Hecuba, Wife to Priam.  
Andromache, Wife to Hector.  
Astyanax, Son to Hector and Andromache.  
Polyxena, (Muta Persona) Daughter to Priam and Hecuba.  
An old Trojan.   

A Messenger.  
Chorus.    

Seneca's Troas.  

ACT I.  Enter Hecuba sola. 

WHO e'er thou art, that trustest to a Crown,  
And slightest th' inconstant Deities, look down  
On Troy and Me: for ne'er did angry Fate  
Show truer Emblems of th' incertain State,  
The short lived Power, and Downfall of the Great.  
In th' humble Dust rich Asia's Pride does lie;  
Nor could its Builders give It Immortality.  
In vain did Memnon, and bold Rhesus come,  
Not to prevent, but sadly share our Doom.  
In her own Ashes Troy a Grave has found,  
And her proud towers are levelled with the ground.  
The greedy Flamens invade the ambient Skies,  
As if they wed reach the cruel Deities:  
Nor will their rage her very Ruins spare,  
But preys upon her Ashes— See! the Air  
In Clouds of Smoak has lost its native light,  
And Troy must suffer an eternal Night.  
With cruel Joy they view their helpless Prey,  
Too great a Recompense for Ten years' stay.  
They fear her still, and scarce believe their Eye,  
Proud of so great, so quick a Victory.  
See how rich Ilium's wealthy Spoils they tear:  
More Trophies than their Thousand Ships can bear.   

Witness ye Gods, ye Authors of our Woe:  
Ye dear Remains of my poor Country too;  
And Thou, poor Prince! whose cruel Destiny  
Prevented Age, and buried Troy with Thee.  
Witness my Hector's Ghost, the Fate of Troy;  
The Grecian's Terror, and his country's Joy  
And ye, unhappy Offspring of my Womb,  
Ye lesser Shades, whatever fatal Doom  
From my illboding Daughter's mouth could come,  
I saw it first, and did my sears express;  
Nor was Cassandra only avain Prophetess.  
'Twas not Tydide's Sword, Ulysses skill  
Unhappy Ilium's richest blood could spill:  
Nor could the perjured Sinon's crafty wile  
The credulous King with specious Lies beguile  
In Me, O Troy, those fatal seeds were sown:  
I bore thy Funeral Torch. (Oh that it were my own!)   

But why thus long do I deplore the Fate  
Of Troy? Her sufferings are grown out of date,  
And yield to fresher sorrows—  
I saw Old Priam's blood at th' Altar spilt;  
The Altar blushed at cruel Pyrrhus' guilt.  
I saw him twist those silver hairs a round  
His cursed hand, and drag him on the ground.  
Then (Oh! why live I to speak out the rest?)  
He sheathed his Sword in Priam's willing breast.  
Nor Fear, nor Pity could withhold his hands  
From shaking out the few remaining sands  
Of his short life, though all the Gods stood by;  
But They too triumphed in our Misery.  
Troy's better Genius, and great Hector's Sire  
Amidst those Flames, must want a Funeral Fire.   

Nor are the cruel Gods yet satisfied:  
See how the Lots our Progeny divide,  
A mournful Prey to th' Victor's Lust and Pride.  
One seeks Antenor's, t'other Hector's Wife:  
Cassandra too is now become their Strife.  
Each shuns My Lot, of Me they're all afraid:  
Oh! whose unhappy Slave must I be made?  
Why, wretched Subjects, why d'ye cease to cry,  
My Equals now in all, but Misery.  
The mournful noise to fatal Ida send,  
And with loud cries his hollow Valleys rend:  
Reach his proud Top, though it ascend to Heaven,  
And teach him to repeat those Griefs, which There were given.   Chorus of Trojan Women, and Hecuba. 
You need not teach us to shed Tears:  
've practsed it for many Years;  
 since unhappy Paris went to Greece,  
And taught our Pines to plough the Seas.  
Ten times has Ida's head been clad with Snow;  
(Ida the sharer of our Woe,  
Our Griefs have made Him bare and naked too.)  
Ten times has th'Harvest crowned our Fields,  
And every day fresh Troubles yields:  
Give You the Signal with up-lifted hands;  
Our Sorrows shall prevent, and outdo your Commands.  Hecub. 
Come dear Companions of my Misery,  
Lose, Lose your hair, and let it fly  
About your Necks; your Arms prepare,  
And your dishevelled Tresses tear:  
Your naked Beauties now display:  
Let Modesty to Grief give way;  
And let your Garments loosely flow.  
So— this is right: and now I know  
The Trojan Dames— Now all your Griefs renew.  
Your Sighs for smaller Losses keep:  
For Hector's Death a more than common sorrow show;  
For Hector now let's weep.  Cho. 
Great Hecuba we have obeyed,  
And each has strewed Troy's Ashes on her head.  Hec. Takes up a handful of Ashes. 
Fill, fill your hands. This surely is our own.  
Now fling those useless Vestures down.  
Now Sorrow all thy forces try,  
Now all thy skill apply.  
Let Rhaetus join with us, and mourn;  
Let hollow Echoes the sad noise return:  
In loudest Accents let each Rock repeat  
All Ilium's Groans— Beat, wretched Matrons, beat  
Your breasts, and let Them echo too;  
Let's weep for Hector now.  Cho. 
To Thee we pay these Tears, we send these Cries;  
Accept these mournful Obsequies.  
Thou sheddest thy Blood for Us; and we  
In gratitude do so for Thee.  
Thou were't thy tottering Country's Prop,  
Her Guardian Angel, and her only Hope:  
By thee she stood, with thee she fell,  
Thy noblest Monument: how well  
Did one day finish both your Fates—  Hec. 
Change, change your Griefs: let's give some proof  
Of Love to Priam; Hector hath enough.  Cho. 
Accept this mournful Tribute of our Eyes,  
Thou who hast suffered two Captivities.  
Twice have the Grecian Weapons pierced our Hearts;  
Twice have we felt Alcides' Darts.  
And thou, brave Prince, who couldst not more enjoy  
Thy valiant Sons, scornest to outlive thy Troy.  Hec. 
Let us our Grief to some sad Object turn;  
For Priam's Death we need not mourn,  
Since our own sufferings teach us to express  
Not Grief for's Death, but Joy for's Happiness.  
Sing Happy Priam now; for he  
With Death has purchased Liberty.  
The Grecian Yoke he ne'er will bear;  
Nor need he great Atrides, or Ulysses fear.  
He cannot now their Scorn, and Triumph be;  
Nor feel their glorious Bonds, and gilded Slavery.  Cho. 
Thrice happy Priam sing we all,  
Who with great Troy didst fall.  
Thou safely wanderest through th' Elysian Grove,  
And seest the darling Object of thy Love.  
O happy Priam! happy, who  
With thy own Fall, hast seen thy Country's too.   

ACT II.  Enter Talthybius. Talthybius, 
WHat long delays our luckless Fleet attend,  
Whether they come from Greece, or thither bend?  Cho. 
What stays the Grecian Ships? Talthybius, say;  
What angry God does once more stop your way?  Tal. 

My trembling joints are loosened all with fear,  
And I am quite unmanned— Prepare to hear  
Monsters beyond belief—  
Scarce had the Sun with his returning Ray  
Gilded the World, and waked the newborn Day;  
When strait the labouring Earth sent forth a Groan,  
And the vast Caverns of the Deep were shown;  
Each frighted Tree his trembling Leaves did move,  
And fearful noises filled the hallowed Grove:  
The Sea began to fear, and durst not roar:  
His trembling Waves crept softly by the Shoar.  
The clefted Earth unlocked her mighty Womb,  
And strait disclosed the great Achilles Tomb.  
So full of rage did the dread Prince appear,  
When first he taught the Thracians how to fear:  
Or when with heaps he choked up Xanthus' flood,  
And stained his Silver streams with Trojan blood:  
Or when he dragged around with cruel Joy  
Dead Hector's Corpse, and cried I've conquered Troy.  
And thus he spoke— (aloud the Valleys round,  
And frightened Shoar restored the dreadful sound.   

" Go, Wretches, go; share your ill gotten Prey,  
" And triumph o'er my Ashes: bear away  
" Once more those spoils, for which so long I fought,  
" And with my richest blood so dearly bought.  
" Over my Parent-Sea, your faithless Navy steer:  
" Despise my Anger Greece! but know't shall cost thee dear,  
" Till at my Shrine Old Priam's Daughter dies,  
" And Pyrrhus' vengeful Sword performs the Sacrifice.   

He spoke— (Ye Grecians credit what I tell;)  
And strait to shapeless Air unseen he fell.  
The Sea laid by his anger, and grew kind;  
And danced to th' gentler murmurs of the Wind,  
Whilst the glad Tritons in one Nuptial Corus joined.   Exit Talthybius. 

SCENE II.  Enter Agamemnon, Pyrrhus, and Calchas. Pyrrhus. 

WHilst with winged speed our Ships do homewards fly,  
Must great Achilles unregarded lie?  
Is He forgot, whose conquering Hand alone  
Troy and her mighty Bulwark has o'erthrown,  
And in one Day did for Ten Years atone?  
Had you desired to give some nobler Proof  
Of gratitude, You could not do enough.  
See how each Soldier's laden with their Spoils;  
A noble Recompense for all his Toils.  
And did He, for such poor Rewards as these,  
Shake off the Fetters of ignoble Ease?  
Did he for this, despise his Mother's Tears,  
And bravely laugh at her prophetic Fears?  
For this did he, inspired with generous Rage,  
Choose a brave Death, before a long inglorious Age?  
And, when beset with all Love's mighty Charms,  
Betray a more than Manlike Thirst for Arms?   

When first proud Telephus would stop his way,  
And the Career of's growing Glories stay,  
He felt his yet unpractised Sword, and found  
From the same Hand a Remedy, and Wound.   

Lyrnessus next, and Thebes his Conquests proved;  
Cilla and Tenedos equally beloved  
By Phoebus, felt his Arms, and Chryse too  
Found what so young, so brave a man could do.  
Towns conquered, Nations captived, Kings o'erthrown,  
Were early signs of what he would have done.  
He still pressed on, and did fresh Glories trace:  
He there began, where others end the Race.  
So young a Victor this great Man appeared,  
And made new Wars, whilst he for War prepared.   

Nor was this all the mighty Prince has done;  
HE outdid himself in Hector's Death alone:  
He bravely won, You basely sack the Town.   

Oh! I could ever on this Subject dwell!  
By him the brave unhappy Memnon fell,  
For whom in Sables sad Aurora mourned,  
And the great Office of the Day adjourned.  
He saw him fall, and learned from's Victory,  
That the God's Sons, as well as common Men, must die.   

You'd gladly, did you his just Merits weigh,  
A Tribute of Mycenian Virgins pay  
TO his sacred Ashes— Gods! d' ye start at this?  
Can You think this a cruel Sacrifice?  
You did not so, when, for false Helen's sake,  
You could an Offering of your Daughter make.  
And can ye, can ye, cruel Prince, deny  
To sacrifice t' his Ghost an Enemy?   Agam. 

We're taught t' impute Youths Passions to their Age;  
But, Pyrrhus, thine's Hereditary Rage.  
Your headstrong Father's Heats we tamely bore,  
And showed our Patience equal to our Power.  
Slain not, young Man, the great Achilles' Shade  
With the base slaughter of a helpless Maid.  
Insult not o'er your Captives: learn, and know  
What They must suffer, and what You must do.  
Fierce Empires, like fierce Storms, are seldom long,  
Whilst they that are less violent, are more strong.  
If that coy Mistress, Fortune, should prove kind;  
(Fortune, that governs all things but the Mind)  
Let not our Pride, with her light Favours, rise,  
But dread the Bounties of the too kind Deities.  
My very Victories have made me know,  
No State so mighty high, but it may fall as low.  
Too much, upon this sudden Change, we swell,  
Who only hold that Place, whence others fell.   

'Tis true, at first I bore myself too high,  
Big with the Fortune of this Victory.  
But this one Thought does all my Pride allay,  
That she which gives, can take her Gifts away.  
That which makes Others blind, has made Me see:  
Priam first taught me Pride, but now Humility.   

Think not that Honour's false deceitful Light,  
(Which I too well have known) can cheat my sight:  
Think not the glittering Emptiness of State  
Can drown my Cares, or make my Crown no weight.  
Less than Ten Years may rob us of our Prey:  
Less than a Thousand Ships may carry All away.   

I must confess, I came not to destroy,  
But by my Conquest to have punished Troy.  
But all my weak Endeavours proved in vain;  
What power a conquering Enemy can restrain?  
Honour, and brave Revenge taught them to fight,  
Encouraged by the terrors of the Night.  
Their Swords once drawn, they I wore should never rest,  
Nor  be sheathed, but in a Trojan's breast.  
Too much on helpless Foes our Fury's spent:  
Conquest, and Death's a double Punishment.  
The Gods forbidden that a weak Maid should fall,  
And with her Murder grace his Funeral.  
'Tis I that must be guilty, if she bleed:  
He that forbids not, when he has power, encourages the Deed   Pyr. 
And is this all?  Agam. 

No, Pyrrhus, no; we'll raise  
His Name with lasting Monuments of Praise.  
Nations unknown to us shall hear his Fame,  
And Infants shall be taught to lisp his Name.   

But since with Blood we must appease his Shade,  
Our fairest Beefs an Offering shall be made:  
Whole Hecatombs we'll pay him every Year,  
Whose Blood may stand no Mother in a Tear.  
Ask not Rewards, which he would blush to take;  
Rewards, at which his generous Ghost would shake.  
For who will think that e'er his Life was good,  
Whose Death must be appeased with Humane Blood?   Pyr. 
Vain idle Prince, whom both Extremes possess,  
Fear in thy Sufferings, Pride in Happiness!  
Does this new Mistress your compassion move,  
To spare her, not for Pity, but for Love?  
Think you the great Achilles' Son to fright,  
And once more rob his Offspring of their Right?  
No: with her Blood my Father's Ghost I'll feast,  
His Tomb the Altar, and myself the Priest.  
Deny me this— by Heaven, he shall receive  
A worthier Victim, fit for me to give.  
Since Priam's dead, no Sacrifice so good  
T' appease his Ghost, as Agamemnon's Blood.  Agam. 
A worthy Deed! when tamely he did yield,  
Your Father's poor Old Suppliant to have killed.  Pyr. 
He did not, as my Father's Suppliant die;  
I killed in him my Country's Enemy.  
But he (good Prince!) had Courage to appear  
Before my Father, when your slavish Fear  
Forced you t' employ some bolder Messenger.  
You feared his wrath more than our Enemy:  
You that then durst not Ask, how dare you now Deny?  Agam. 
He did not fear! who, when our Navy lay  
To both the Elements a helpless Prey,  
Buried in Sloth and Pleasure, lay along,  
Feasting his wanton Ears with some lewd Song.  Pyr. 
But know, his peaceful Lute did Hector scare  
More than your loudest Instruments of war,  
When, in the midst of all your Panic Fear,  
Kind Peace, and Safety reigned securely there.  Agam. 
Yes! there was Peace, when Hector's Father dare  
Amidst our Fleet his bold Requests declare!  Pyr. 
'Tis Godlike in a Prince, another Prince to spare.  Agam. 
Why then by you did poor Old Priam die?  Pyr. 
I did but ease him of his Misery.  Agam. 
And must your Pity kill his Daughter too?  Pyr. 
Can this at last be thought a Crime by You?  Agam. 
I spilt my own to save my Subject's Blood;  
A Prince's Darling is his Countries Good.  Pyr. 
What Law, what Power a Victor's Sword can awe?  Agam. 
Where there is none, shame must prescribe a Law.  Pyr. 
A Conqueror's Power is measured by his Will.  Agam. 
Where that prevails, the Measure is but ill.  Pyr. 
Talk you these things to those, whom Fate and I  
Have bravely freed from Ten Years slavery?  Agam. 
How, Hotspur! and can Scyros make You proud?  Pyr. 
Scyros, that never blushed with brethren's Blood.  Agam. 
A floating spot!—  Pyr. 
But in my Parent-Sea.  
Who knows not Atreus, and Thyestes noble Progeny?  Agam. 
Go, Bastard, go; thou fruit of stolen Delight,  
Born of Achilles  he yet durst fight.  Pyr. 
Of that Achilles, whose great Ancestors  
In Fame, or Blood shall never yield to Yours:  
To whom the frame of this great World obeys:  
Jove rules Heaven, Aeacus the Shades, Thetis the Seas.  Agam. 
Of that Achilles, whom weak Paris killed!  Pyr. 
With whom no God dare yet engage in open Field.  Agam. 

I could, Young Man, would I exert my Power,  
Silence that Tongue, and bring that Spirit lower.  
But You b' our wont Clemency, have found,  
We never make, but always heal a Wound.  
Let Godlike Calchas finish our Debate:  
Him I'll obey; whate'er he speaks, is Fate.   

To Calchas Thou, who, when angry Heaven had stopped our way,  
Showd'st both the Reason, and Rem'dy of our stay.  
heavens Privy Counsellor, who knowst the Cause,  
And Change of things, and giv'st blind Mortals Laws:  
To whom each Bird, each Beast, each bearded Star,  
The strange Vicissitudes of Fate declare;  
Thou, whose prophetic Mouth has cost me dear,  
Speak heavens Commands, and all our Actions steer.   Cal. 
Your wished Return your wont Gists must buy,  
Not to be granted, till the Virgin die.  
Adorned with Nuptial Garments she must come,  
And there be wedded to Achilles Tomb.  
This Sacrifice the angry Gods will please:  
This will the great— Pelidos' ' angrier Ghost appease.  
Nor is this all the Deities desire,  
But still a nobler Victim they require.  
Troy's other Hope, the Noble Hector's Son  
From Ilium's highest Tower must be cast down.  
Then the kind Gods will send us prosperous Gales:  
Our Ships shall fill the Sea; the Wind our Sails.  Exeunt. CHORUS. 
IS't true? Or does some Fear our minds deceive,  
That Souls their Bodies do outlive?  
When any wretched Mortal dies,  
And his sad Kindred close his Eyes,  
Does not Death finish all his Pain,  
But must he die, to live again?  
Or rather, when our Bodies die,  
And with our Breath, our Souls too fly,  
Is Death the End, and Cure of all our Misery?  
wherever allseeing Phoebus goes,  
wherever the watery Ocean flows,  
Nimbler than both, Time posts away;  
Nor Gods, nor Men his Course can stay.  
Swift, as the rapid Orbs are hurled;  
Swift, as the Eye of this great World,  
Our basty Sand does downwards run,  
Our Minutes fly, our Life is gone;  
And when the slippery Guest takes flight,  
The rest is long Oblivion, and eternal Night.  
As Smoak dissolves into the Air,  
And Winds drive Clouds we know not where:  
So when poor Mortals breathe their last,  
Their Souls exhale too in a blast;  
And when the mighty Nothing disappears,  
Death crowns our hopes, and cures our fears.  
What place must, after Death our Souls receive?  
That, where we lay,  we began to live.  
Our Souls, as well as Bodies, die;  
And all is swallowed up in vast Eternity.  
Pluto, Elysium, Cerberus are nought  
But the lose Image of a shapeless Thought.  
The Poet's, not the Wiseman's Theme.  
The wild Idea of an empty Dream.    

ACT III.  Enter Andromache, Astyanax, and an Old Trojan. Andromache. 
WHY, wretched Phrygians, why d' ye tear your Hairs?  
Why swell your Breasts with Sighs, your Cheeks with Tears?  
My Sorrows wear a sadder Livery.  
Troy fell but Now to You, Long since to Me.  
When fierce Achilles my— loved Hector slew,  
And the dear Corpse thrice round our City drew,  
The Chariot groaned, and shook beneath Its weight,  
Whilst each sad Trojan feared approaching Fate.  
Hector, and Troy at the same time did fall:  
If Tears can quench our Sorrows, they're but small.  
I that have Lived, would gladly Die his Wife,  
And show my Death as faithful as my Life.  
But This sad Pledge of our once happy Loves,  
My Fears increases, and my Pity moves.  
For His dear sake I live against my will,  
And am contented to be wretched still.  
My Care for Him has cost me many a Tear,  
And robs my miseries of the wretched comfort, not to Fear.  
No Help, no Remedy for all my Care,  
But all is hopeless Sorrow, and Despair.  Troj. 
Madam, what Fears distract your restless mind?  And. 
Many are Past, but more are still Behind.  
Alas! our Sufferings must be worse, and more.  Troj. 
What Curses have the angry Gods in store?  And. 
All, all the mighty Powers of Hell break lose:  
And Death itself will triumph over Us.  
Had they not slain enough before they bled?  
But must they kill us too, even when they're Dead?  
Must none but Grecian Ghosts return from Thence?  
I thought just Death had made no difference.  
These are the common Sufferings of us All:  
But heavier Sorrows on my Head must fall.  Troj. 
Speak, what sad Omen has heavens anger sent?  And. 

'Twas, when two parts of the long Night were spent  
In Sighs and Tears, when slumber did surprise  
My weary Limbs, and closed my weeping Eyes.  
And strait my lovely Hector's Shade appeared;  
Not like that Hector, whom the Grecians feared;  
When fierce as Lightning mongst their Troops He flew,  
And many a treacherous Grecian bravely slay,  
And in the Feigned Achilles' ' Death, did wound the True.  
Gone was the sprightly Colour of his Face;  
Sorrow and Death had banished every Grace.  
Breathless, and pale by my Bedside he stood:  
Stiff was his Hair, and clotted all with Blood.  
All Dismal, and all Brave he did appear;  
At once he moved my Love, at once my Fear.  
Once, and again his grisly Locks he shook,  
And thus my dear, my dreadful Hector spoke:   

" Thou equal Partner of my faithful Bed,  
" Dear while I Lived, and Constant now I'm Dead:  
" Dare not to sleep, when Danger is so nigh;  
" With my poor Boy to some far Country fly,  
" Or in some secret Cavern let Him lie.  
" Weep not for Troy, your Tears will do no good;  
" But save the little Remnant of my Blood.   

He spoke, and strait He left my clouded sight,  
And the lose shape dissolved into the Night.  
I woake, and starting from my Bed amazed,  
Forsook my Child, and round about me gazed.  
The Airy Shade was lost in my embrace,  
Whilst Fear and Horror filled around the Place.   

To Astyanax. Thou only, last, dear Hope of Troy and Me;  
The Cause, and Comfort of my Misery:  
Too like my Hector, and too near his Blood,  
Born of a Race too noble, and too good;  
Such was thy warlike Father's lovely Face,  
The same was every Action, every Grace.  
Such were his Eyes, his Limbs so strait and fair;  
Such was the Length, and Colour of his Hair.  
Too soon thou'rt born to Me; but, Oh! too late,  
Or to prevent thy Own, or thy poor Country's Fate.  
When will that dear, that wished-for Minute come,  
When I shall see Thee bravely leading Home  
Thy captive, banished, scattered Countrymen?  
When shall Old Troy, and We revive again?   

Thus I deceive, and vainly soothe my Grief,  
And dare not hope that Heaven will send relief:  
Yet all my Hopes, and Fears are bound up in thy Life.   

Alas! what place, what refuge dare I trust?  
Our strongest Towers are buried in the Dust:  
Of all the stately Structures of proud Troy,  
There's not enough remains to hid my Boy.   

There is a Tomb, where Hector's Ashes lie,  
Feared and untouched even by the Enemy,  
A Monument of Old Priam's pious Prodigality.  
Here he shall lay— Cold Sweat bedews my Face!  
I dread the Omen of the Fatal place.   Troj. 
These timely Fears both You, and Him may save.  And. 
With Him, my Hopes are buried in the Grave.  
What if some curious Greek my Fraud should spy?  Troj. 
Whate'er you do, be close; trust no man's Eye;  
But say, that one day buried Him, and Troy.  And. 
Should they but search this Tomb, 'twould prove his Last.  Troj. 
A Conqueror's Rage is fierce, but quickly passed.  And. 
So dangerous a place I dare not trust.  Troj. 
Others may choose what Helps they please; let  
Him take what he must.  And. 

To what far Region dare I trust my Fears?  
What Hope, what Help, what Remedy appears?  
Thou, that didst never fail, assist me now:  
Hector, avert this sad, this fatal Blow.  
Even in thy Death, give Me, and Troy relief,  
And let thy faithful Ashes save his Life.   

Haste, haste! get in, dear Boy; Oh! why dost turn  
Away, and such mean shifts too bravely scorn?  
See, He's ashamed of Fear— Come, lay aside  
This early Courage, and this useless Pride,  
And make the best of Fortune—  
See, what remains of Troy; great Hector's Grave,  
A helpless Infant, and a wretched Slave.  
Into this hallowed Vault undaunted come,  
In Life thy Refuge, and in Death thy Tomb.   She puts him into the Tomb. Troj. 
So, now He's safe: and lest your Fears betray  
Your Hopes, be wise, and quickly hast away.  And. 
The more I stay, the less still grows my Fear,  
Whilst its dear Object, my loved Boy's so near.  Troj. 
But soft!— Thesly Ulysses does appear.  Enter Ulysses. And. 
Aside. Earth, Hell, or Sea, unlock thy mighty Womb,  
And let my Boy into thy Centre come:  
Let Him for ever There securely lie,  
Free from Ulysses fatal Treachery.  
Some wretched Phrygian to fresh woes he dooms,  
And big with some new Mischief, hither comes.  Ulyss. 
Madam, with Patience my sad Message bear,  
Think not Ulysses speaks, what You must hear,  
But Greece, whose wished Return is sought in vain,  
Whilst the least drop of Hector's Blood remains.  
'Tis That that keeps our Wind-bound Navy here,  
As long as Troy can Hope, Greece ought to Fear.  And. 
Does this mad Oracle from Calchas come?  Ulyss. 

Hector had taught us this, had He been dumb.  
Hector, whose very Name renews my Fears,  
In whose brave Son his Spirit too soon appears.   

So the Young Follower of some numerous Herd,  
Whose budding Horns scarce through his Skin appeared,  
Strait as the sprouting Branch adorns his Head,  
His mighty Father's Flock does proudly lead.   

The tender Sucker of some ancient Tree  
Spreads, like its Sire, and quickly shoots as high;  
Its Branches shade the Earth, Its Top out-braves the Sky:   

Just so a small neglected Spark of Fire,  
Does to its great Original aspire.   

Grief, Madam, is too partial a Judge;  
You could not else so small a favour grudge;  
If the poor Soldier, after Ten long Years,  
Grown Old in Sufferings, a new Hector fears,  
In whom the only Hope of Troy appears.  
'Tis He alone our Remora does prove;  
And You alone can all our Fears remove.   

Now, lest You think me cruel, who am come,  
Not by my Choice, but Fate, to speak his Doom,  
Know, had the Lot appointed Me alone,  
I had not stuck to ask Atrides' ' Son.  
With Hector's Courage all your Losses bear,  
And learn to suffer, from Your Conqueror.   And. 

‛ Would the dear Boy were locked within these Arms!  
Or that I knew what Fate, what Art, what Charms  
Had snatched him hence, not all Your haughty Words,  
Your strictest Tortures, or your sharpest Swords  
Should ravish the dear Secret from my Heart,  
In which Astyanax claims the greatest part.   

What Place, what Region hides my Joy, my Love?  
Dost thou in some untrodden Desert rove?  
Or do the Clouds of thy poor Country's Smoke,  
Thy dear, thy lovely Breath unkindly choke?  
Or dost thou on the mournful Ida lay,  
To all its Birds and Beasts a helpless Prey?   Ulyss. 
Think not, fond Woman, that thou art believed:  
Think not Ulysses is so soon deceived.  
A thousand Mother's wiles I could outdo,  
Though they were Deities, and Women too.  
Come, leave these useless Arts. Say, where's the Boy?  And. 
Where's Priam, Hector, Paris? Where's all Troy?  
You look for One, but I for all must seek.  Ulyss. 
Tortures, and Racks shall quickly make you speak.  And. 
They scorn your Threats, that dare, that wish to die.  Ulyss. 
Death soon will cool this short-lived Bravery.  And. 
Wouldst make me Fear? Then threaten me with Life.  
For Death's the Cure, and not the Cause of Grief.  Ulyss. 

Are you so Brave? Our stiffest Racks shall tear  
It from your Breast, and teach you how to Fear.   

Tortures shall bend, or break your stubborn Will:  
Come, let not Rashness hid, what Fear must soon reveal.   And. 
Death, Famine, Fire, and all the dreadful Train  
Of Torments, all the cruelest Arts of Pain,  
All that a raging Conqueror's fury dare  
Inflict, and more for Him I wed gladly bear.  Ulyss. 
Still resolute!— This rash, this stubborn Love,  
Does the like doubts, and fears in th' Grecians move.  
After a tedious War of Ten long Years,  
Less were the Danger, Madam, less our Fears,  
Were these the last; but we must dread new War:  
You for our Sons fresh Enemies prepare.  And. 
Must then— (And do I live to ask?) must We  
Heighten your Pleasure by our Misery?  
Rejoice, proud Prince, once more my Conqueror:  
My dear, my loved Astyanax is no more.  Ulyss. 
Can this be true?—  And. 
Even so may welcome Death  
Gently, and kindly stop my yielding Breath:  
So, when in Death, I, and my Hector meet,  
Soft may our Pillows be, our Slumbers sweet,  
As in the Grave Astyanax is laid,  
And all the Funeral-Rites by wretched Me were paid.  Ulyss. 

The welcome News to th' Grecian Camp I'll bear;  
News, which each longing Greek will gladly hear.  
But stay!—  
The well-dissembled Story I receive  
From Her, in whom 'tis Piety to deceive.  
Curses to Her no longer they appear,  
Since made to save the All She reckons dear,  
And losing that, She nothing else can fear.  
But She has solemnly and deeply sworn—  
What can She suffer more than She has born?  
Now all thy Cunning, all thy Arts employ:  
Be whole Ulysses; sound the pious Lie,  
And search her Weakness— see her very Fears,  
Her Sighs, her Looks, her Walks betray her Fears,  
And every word I speak, does wound her Ears.  
Her Fear exceeds her Sorrow—   

To her Others, indeed, may curse the Crimes of Fate:  
Madam, Your Loss we must congratulate.  
Had He survived, he had but lived to fall  
Down the steep precipice of yon Turret's wall.   And. 
Aside. I shake all o'er! my frozen Blood does start  
To the forsaken Channels of my Heart.  Ulyss. 

Aside. See, see, She shakes— Once more I'll try her here,  
Whilst her unwary Love betrays her Fear.   

To his Attendants. Go— find the cursed Brat, wherever he lies;  
If Dead, we'll burn him; if Alive, he dies.  
'Tis well— We have him— To her. Ha! Why look you back?  
What fearful apprehensions make you shake?   And. 
Would I had Cause! With him my Fears are gone:  
But who can soon Forget what one has Learned too long?  Ulyss. 
Since he has perished by a milder Fate,  
And Heaven has published Its Commands too late,  
To be obeyed; thus Learned Calchas says,  
Great Hector's hallowed Monument we must raze;  
And strew his Ashes in the neighbouring Seas.  
Now, since our just Requests you can refuse,  
Heaven must this pious Sacrilege excuse.  And. 

Aside. What shall I do? From whether shall I part?  
Each claims an equal portion in my Heart.  
Witness, Ye Gods, by whom we were betrayed:  
Witness, thou greater God, my Hector's shade:  
Nothing so lovely in my Boy I see,  
As the dear Image that He bears of Thee.  
Then let Him live— But shall that sacred place  
Be razed, and shall thy Ashes slain the face  
Of the rude Ocean? Rather let him Die,  
And pay that Life again, which he received from Thee.   

But can I see the helpless Infant thrown,  
And rudely hurled from yon high Turret down?  
I can, and will, but Oh! I cannot bear  
To see thy Ashes scattered in the Air.  
The Boy has sense, to feel their Cruelty;  
But Thou from Sense, or Pain, too safe dost lie.  
Which must I count the greater Misery?  
How! Can I doubt?— On this side Hector lays.  
'Tis false— for Hector suffers either way.  
He lives; in Him my only Hopes appear:  
Then let him Live, whose Life the Grecians fear.   Ulyss. 
Break up the Tomb—  And. 
What! that which you have sold?  Ulyss. 
Nothing shall stay me—  And. 
Hold! Ulysses, hold!  
By all that's good, or just, your Fury stay,  
And please the cruel Gods some other way.  
From this rude violence his dear Ashes save.  
Pyrrhus, protect those Gifts thy noble Father gave.  Ulyss. 
What angry Heaven condemns, I may not spare.  And. 

Your blackest Crimes did ne'er proceed so far.  
Our fairest Temples ye have overthrown:  
The Shrines o'th' patiented Gods ye have battered down;  
But Tombs have scaped your Sacrilege alone.   

Aside. Shall I alone their well-armed Rage withstand?  
Revenge shall strengthen, Love shall guide my Hand.  
Just as the warlike Maid, amidst her Troops  
Routed the faithless Greeks, and dashed their hopes:  
As the wild Maenade through the Woods did rove,  
And killed the darling Object of her Love:  
Thus I'll undaunted rush amongst them all.  
And for His Ashes Fight; or with them Fall.   Ulyss. 
To his Attendants. Can a weak Woman's Tears your Passions sway?  
Or will you heavens Commands, and Mine obey?  And. 
Let me redeem Him, though my Life's the Price.  
Rise, my loved Hector, from Elysium rise.  
Let thy weak Ghost their weaker Rage withstand.  
He comes! he comes!— And see in yon right hand,  
He shakes his Sword, and darts a dreadful light.  
And does not This your rash Attempts affright?  
Or does the airy Phantom cheat my sight?  Ulyss. 
You rave in vain: I'll break the Mon'ment down.  And. 

Aside. And shall one Ruin overwhelm my Husband and my Son?  
It must not be: I'll try some gentler way;  
And since I cannot Terrify, I'll Pray.  
The Stone will quickly fall, as if 'twere meant  
To be at once his Death, and Monument.  
No: let his Blood some other way be spilt;  
Not slain his Father's Tomb with such a Gild.   

To Him. See, great Ulysses, a sad Mother see,  
That never Kneeled to any man but Thee.  
Let thy hard Heart be melted with my Tears;  
Pity my Sufferings, and receive my Prayers.  
Gently, Oh! gently all my Sorrows ease,  
Whate'er you grant the wretched, more will please  
Just Heaven, than all the Pomp and Cost of Sacrifice.  
So may you safe return, and end your Life  
I'th' chaste Embraces of your faithful Wife:  
So may your loved Telemachus equalise  
His Grandsire's Years, his Father's Policies;  
As You to Me and Him shall gentle prove.   Ulyss. 
Madam, produce the Boy, and trust our Love.  Exit Andromache, and reenters with Astyanax. Andromache. 

Come forth, unhappy Infant; come;  
Forsake thy noble Father's Tomb.  
See, great Ulysses, see, He's here,  
Whom all Your Thousand Ships did fear.   

To Astyanax. Come, leave this useless Pride, thus low  
Beneath our Conqueror's Feet let's bow.  
Since Fortune cannot be withstood,  
Forget the honour of thy Blood,  
Forget great Priam's happy State,  
And let thy Mind be levelled to thy Fate.  
Come, kneel; and if thou canst not see,  
Nor feel the burden of thy Misery,  
Yet mayst thou learn to weep from Me.  
Troy long before, a Prince's Tears has seen;  
Nor have they unsuccessful been;  
For they even Hercules could win:  
The mighty Hercules, whose Name  
Employs the willing Voice of Fame,  
Who Thither went, and Thence returned, whence never Mortal came.  
Moved with his harmless Enemies Tears,  
Forgot his Wrongs, and cured all Priam's Fears.  
Govern, said He, thy faithless Father's Land,  
But Rule it with a juster Hand.  
Thus was He settled in his Throne,  
And by his Father's Sufferings gained a Crown.  
To Ulysses. Learn from Alcides ' Anger to be Kind.  
Or can his fatal Arms alone content Your Mind?  
Before Your Feet no less a Suppliant lies,  
With lift-up Hands, and down cast Eyes.  
Let Him his Life alone enjoy;  
We care not what becomes of Troy.   Ulyss. 
Aside. What Rock these Sighs and Prayers unmoved could hear?  
But all the Grecian Dames with me must fear:  
His Life may cost each Mother many a Tear.  And. 
Can this great Pile be raised by such a Boy?  
Can these weak Hands rebuild, or fight for Troy?  
Or can these Arms his tottering Country prop?  
No: 'twere a groundless, and a desperate hope.  
Do we thus Low, and yet thus Dreadful lay?  
And can the Lion fear his helpless Prey?  
Can the great Father's Soul inspire the Son?  
Th' Effect remains not, when its Cause is gone.  
His Father's Fate a braver mind would quell,  
Fraught with the mighty burden of his ills.  
Rather than Perish, let him ever lie  
Beneath the slavish Yoke of base Captivity.  
What Tyrant can this poor Request deny?  Ulyss. 
Then Calchas is that Tyrant, and not I.  And. 
And dare You, vile Dissembler, break Your word?  
Base man, whose Tongue is smother than thy Sword,  
And sharper too: We suffer not alone;  
But Greece itself beneath thy Crafts does groan.  
Blaspheme not Heaven: Its Deities are more kind;  
By Thee alone this Mischief was designed.  
Go, Midnight-Souldier; go dissembling Scout:  
In the Sun's face thou darest not venture out.  
Go, set Your mighty Wit against a Boy,  
Who, could he wield a Sword, should Conquer Thee.  Ulyss. 

Greece knows my Prowess enough, and Troy too well.  
What You have suffered, sure I need not tell.   

But, while in fruitless words I lose the Day,  
The winds swell all our Sails, and chide my stay.   And. 
Hold! whilst this last, this parting Kiss I pay.  
Let me with Tears bedew that lovely Face:  
Let me, Oh! let me die in his Embrace.  Ulyss. 
I wed gladly, if I might, this Loss retrieve,  
But take the only Favour I can give,  
And freely use the wretched power to Grieve.  And. 
To Astyanax Thou last great Martyr, that must die for Troy,  
My much loved Hector's no less lovely Boy,  
How have I promised Thee the happiness  
Of Priam's Years, and Hector's great Success!  
But Heaven with scorn on all my Prayers looked down,  
And now that Head must never wear a Crown.  
Ne'er must those tender Hands a Sceptre wield;  
Never, Oh! never thy poor Country shield.  
Oft have I wished (but Oh! I wished in vain!)  
By Thee t' have seen the cruel Pyrrhus slain,  
And in the Son, Revenge upon the Father ta ' en.  
The foaming Boar thou never wilt pursue,  
And teach us what thy riper Years might do.  
Nor in the solemn Pomp o' th' Lustral Year,  
Bravely i'th' head of all thy Mates appear,  
And Ilium's Fate, our lost Palladium bear.  
Nor in great Dyndimene's hallowed Grove  
Wilt Thou to th' music's tuneful measures move.  
O dismal Fate! Our guilty walls must see,  
Than Hector's Death a greater Cruelty.  Ulyss. 
Madam, in vain your Time and Tears you spend:  
Your Sorrows are too great to find an End.  And. 

Oh! let these Tears, the Messengers of Grief,  
Seal the dear Infant's Eyes, whilst yet he has Life.   

To Astyanax. Go, fearless, go, no longer now a slave:  
Brave, though thou'rt Young, and Dreadful in the Grave.  
Go, see thy Father; Death will set Thee free,  
And lose the tedious Bonds of Life and Slavery.   Ast. 

Oh! help me, Mother!—  
Why dost catch my Hand?  
What Power, what force, can Heaven and Greece withstand?   

Just so the tender Heifer, when she hears  
The Lion's voice, with trembling haste retires,  
And by her Mother's side lays down her fears.  
But when her kind Protectress once is gone,  
And the poor helpless Captive is alone,  
The angry Beast with cruel sport does play  
With his small Prize, then snatches it away.   

Here! These dear Tokens to my Hector bear:  
These Tears— these Kisses— and these Locks of Hair.  
Nay, chide him too; for if (as there must need)  
The care of them that Live does reach the Dead,  
And with their Souls, their Love too is not fled.  
Canst Thou (Unkind!) thus long, thus tamely lie,  
An idle witness of my slavery?  
Cannot the force of all my Miseries  
Break the firm Seals of thy closed Tomb, and Eyes?   

Here! take more Hair: my flaming Eyes are drained  
Of all the little moisture that remained,  
Since Hector's Death— Leave this sad Legacy, His Mantle.  
And let it teach me to remember Thee.  
Touched by his Tomb, and Thee, 'tis doubly Dear;  
If the least part of's sacred Dust is here,  
I'll cleanse it with my Lips, and wash it with a Tear.   Ulyss. 
Your Grief wastes Time: I can no longer stay.  
Go, snatch the peevish, linger Brat away.  Exeunt. CHORUS. 
WHither, Oh! whither must we fly?  
To what sad Scene of new Captivity?  
Shall we to Phthia, or to Tempe go,  
And make that pleasant Shade a Witness of our Woe?  
Or to Mothone, whose too fruitful Darts  
Have more than once gone through our Hearts?  
Or to the lofty Pelion's Top,  
(Th' ambitious Giants strongest Hope.)  
Where on some craggy Mount old Chiron laid,  
And to his listening Pupil played.  
Some warlike Tune his Courage did prepare,  
And made those peaceful Arts the Instruments of War.  
To any Region let us run,  
So we may fatal Sparta shun.  
Oh! may we never Sparta see:  
Sparta the Cause of all our Misery.  
Unhappy Hecube! whose hard Fate  
Thy wretched Age does captivate.  
Under what Tyrant must thou spend  
Thy days, till with thy Life, thy Miseries find an end.   

ACT IU.  Enter Helen sola. Helen. 
WHen angry Heaven with Curses does prepare  
To couple any inauspicious Pair,  
Let after-Ages say, the ominous Helen's there.  
Troy's Nuptial, and its Funeral-Torch once more  
'Tis I must light: I must betray the poor  
Unhappy Bride; I'd done too much before,  
In my destructive Love of Paris: now  
I must betray his harmless Sister too.  
Yes, I will do't; I'll fill her Soul with Joy:  
All glorious, and all cheerful she shall Die,  
So less her Fears, and less my Gild will be.  Enter to Her Andromache, Hecuba, and Polyxena. 

To Polyxena Thou last fair Branch of Priam's noble Stock,  
Rejoice; some kinder Deity does look  
With pity on your Sufferings, and prepares  
To crown Your Wishes, and to cure Your Fears.  
Pyrrhus must be Your Bridegroom 'tis the voice  
Of Greece, and Heaven itself confirms our Choice.  
Each happy God will be Your great Ally,  
And every Goddess in his Parent-Sea.   

Come, dry those Tears, those mournful Garments leave,  
And this glad Livery of Joy receive.  
With Care your torn, dishevelled Tresses place,  
And set forth all the Beauties of Your Face.  
Your subtlest Art, Your strongest Charms employ,  
And let Your Conqueror feel the Conquest of Your Eye.   And. 

Too long indeed 've Strangers been to Joy  
See how the greedy Flames still feed on Troy.  
Oh! 'tis a glorious Sight how well 'twould prove  
The Scene not of our Sorrow, but our Love!   

Go, quickly go, 'ttwere Treason not t' obey  
These Summons, when fan Helen bids away.   

To Helen. Thou equal Plague to Greece, and Ilium too,  
Canst thou unmoved behold this dismal Show  
Of cattered Bones? Canst thou see Paris Tomb  
Yet fresh, and can that treach rous Heart find room  
For Love and Nuptials? See, on every Plain,  
The Men, whom thy adulterous Love has slain,  
Unburied, and unpitied long have lain.  
For Thee, thou glorious Whore, the richest Blood  
Of Troy was spilt, whilst unconcerned You stood,  
And from our Walls, scarce weeping at the Sight,  
Beheld Your two unhappy Husbands fight,  
And knew not which to favour—   

Go, Let the Bridal-Bed be quickly made,  
Let all the richest Ornaments be laid!  
What need we Flames, the happy Pair to light?  
What need we Torches, when Troy burns so bright?  
Nay, Music too their Nuptial Rites shall grace;  
And Sighs, and hollow Groans shall fill the Place.   Hel. 
Though Minds thus full of woe no words can move,  
And Grief its fellow sufferers best does love,  
Do You impartial Judges of my Sorrows prove.  
To Andromache. You shed for Hector; To Hecuba. You for Priam's Tears.  
Alas! my Griefs are greater, and my Fears.  
And lest the jealous Prince my Tears should see,  
I dare not Weep for Paris, though He Died for Me.  
Thus am I envied even my Misery.  
Great were Your Sufferings, but Your Fears are past:  
Lesle were my Sorrows, if they were my Last.  
Great is Your Number, and Your Troubles few;  
I suffer from the Conqueror, and the Conquered too.  
All other Captives kinder Masters have,  
But I must be my cruel Husband's slave.  
Justly might Troy, and You have cursed my Name,  
Had I unsought, unfetched to Paris came:  
But since to Violence I was made a Prey,  
And from my Friends and Country forced away,  
Blame Your own Paris, whose unhappy voice  
First favoured Venus, then made Me his fatal Choice.  
My Husband's Censure I must undergo,  
He'll be my Judge, and my Accuser too.  

Cease, fair Andromache, a while to grieve,  
And comfort Her: my Tears won't give Me leave.   And. 
Sure some great Evil's nigh, when She can Weep;  
But She's a Grecian: the Design's too deep,  
For Me to fathom.— Say, what new Command  
To Helen You bring from Greece: what mischiefs now in hand?  
Say, must this helpless Virgin too be thrown  
From Ida's Top, or from some Turret down?  
Or must She from some Cliffs vast Precipice  
Be rudely cast into the neighbouring Seas?  
Say, fair Deceiver, what new Treason lies  
Under the flattering Tears of those false Eyes?  
Nay, speak thy worst: for sure there can't be worse;  
And Pyrrhus ' Nuptials are our greatest Curse  
We ask not Life: (too long, alas! 've lived;)  
But only beg our Mileries be ned deceived.  Hel. 
Would the great Oracle of Greece would bid  
Me leave this hated Life, and for Her Bleed!  
Would I might share, or else prevent her Doom,  
And for Her be espoused to great Achilles ' Tomb.  And. 

See, how unmoved the dismal News she hears,  
With joyful haste for Nuptials she prepares,  
And less his Tomb, than his Son's Bed she fears.   

But her poor Mother sinks beneath her Grief:  
She faints! Oh! let us soon recall her Life,  
And cheer her drooping Spirits— She opes her Eyes,  
And Death's afraid to ease her Miseries.   Hec. 

Lives then Achilles still to work me Harm?  
Oh! the weak force of wretched Paris Arm!  
Can't his Immortal Anger be withstood?  
But must his cruel Ashes thirst for Blood?  
But now encompassed with a numerous Crowd  
Of all my happy Progeny I stood,  
And equally to All my Kisses I bestowed.  
Now this poor Girl, of All, remains alone,  
And with the Rest, my Hopes and Joys are gone:  
Now She alone can call me Mother—   

Dear Girl, come hither— Oh! how I desire  
Amidst thy loved Embraces to expire!  
See, see, in pity of my Ills, she cries.  
Let none but Tears of Joy bedew those Eyes.  
Come, let me kiss those lovely Pearls away.  
How would Cassandra for such Nuptials pray!   And. 
'Tis We, dear Mother, We alone must grieve,  
Whom where they please, the faithless Winds must drive.  
Whilst happier She i' th' silent Grave is laid.  Hel. 
Knew You Your Fate, You wed think the beauteous Maid  
Still happier—  And. 
Sure my Ills I han't forgot.  Hel. 
Then know, You're made unhappy slaves t'a Lot.  And. 
Which of my Conquerors must I Master call?  Hel. 
Madam, to happy Pyrrhus share You fall.  Hec. 
Happy Cassandra! Sure her Rage will save  
Her Honour: She, I hope, is no man's slave.  Hel. 
The King chose Her—  Hec. 
And whom must I obey?  Hel. 
You are unwilling Ithacus' Prey.  Hec. 

And must I fall beneath a Prince's hand?  
Blind Deities! why could Ye not command  
The fatal Lots more equally to fall?  
Ye might have been more Just, though not more King to all.   

Must I again my Hector's Armour see,  
And with the fight renew my Misery?  
And blush more at my Master, than my slavery?  
Now I am truly wretched— Yes, I'll go:  
But may my usual Fate go with me too.   

May some great Tempest swell the raging Sea,  
And may the Winds be merciless as They.  
May all the mighty Ills which I have born,  
Doubly upon my Conqueror's Heads return.  
If Heaven grant this, no longer I'll repine,  
But think Their Sufferings a Reward for Mine.   

But see, fierce Pyrrhus hastens to the Place,  
Big with Revenge and Anger in his Face.  
Let Me be wedded to thy Father's Grave,  
And rid Ulysses of a hated slave.  
You killed Old Priam: pray dispatch me too.  
Sure I am Old enough to die by You.   

Go, thou base Murderer, inhuman Priest,  
And glut the oruel Gods with such a Feast.   

Great as my Ills, what Curse shall I invent?  
What heavy, new, unheard of Punishment?  
May You for ever want a Prosperous Gale:  
May none but blust'ring Boreas fill Your Sails,  
And nought but Grief Your Bosoms— This on All:  
But on Ulysses Ship may heavier Curses fall.   CHORUS. 
LEss are the Griefs we undergo,  
When they are felt by Others too,  
Less are our Sorrows, less our Fears,  
The more our Company appears.  
Great Griefs, like Burdens, are more light,  
The more there are to share the Wright.  
And none, with Justice, can refuse  
To bear the Fortune Others use.  
Take from the Rich their Gold away,  
And Poor men are as good as They.  
When we see happier Men, we grieve,  
And all our Sorrows are Comparative.  
'Tis this does all our Sufferings ease,  
To see that Others bear no less.  
He only does his Fate bemoan,  
Who in a single Ship alone  
Has ploughed the Seas; and after some great Wrack,  
With a light Ship, and heavy Heart comes back.  
Who sees the Dangers of a sinking Fleet,  
Thinks not his Sufferings are so great.  
HE has this sad Comfort of his Misery,  
That All, as well as He, must die.  
When the proud Master of the Golden Fleece,  
With his dear Burden crossed the Seas,  
Phryxus with Tears saw Helle drown:  
Well might he weep, when he was left Alone.  
So, when the only honest Pair,  
That could our wretched Race repair,  
Of all Mankind alone remained,  
Each happy in the Other, ne'er complained.  
Thus, by our Conquerors, when we're snatched away,  
A helpless, but a numerous Prey;  
The Wind shall scatter all our Tears,  
Our Number shall secure our Fears.  
What shall we say, when on the Deck we stand,  
And from  behold the lessening Land?  
What shall we think, when Ida's Tops grow less,  
And with the Seas, our Fears increase?  
And, when our Sons shall seek their Native Land,  
Each wretched Mother, pointing with her hand,  
(The Tears still trickling from her Eyes,)  
Shall cry, See, yonder Ilium lies,  
Where those black Clouds of curling Smoke do rise.   

ACT V.  Enter Andromache, and Hecuba, and to them a Messenger. Messenger. 
OH! horrid, cruel Tyranny of Death!  
My very News has put me out of Breath.  
What Thing so sad has happened any Year,  
As neither I dare Speak, nor You can Hear?  
Oh! ask not that which in a Woman's Ear,  
Would make another Murder—  Hec. 
Speak the worst.  
With greater Sorrows, sure I can't be cursed.  Mess. 
Your To Hecuba. Daughter, and your To Andromache. Son, are now no more:  
But Both with Constancy their Sufferings bore.  And. 
Describe the dismal Scene, but be not brief;  
Speak all: for I am hardened now with Grief.  
Be plain, and each Particular declare,  
For I can hear it all without a Tear.  Mess. 

There is a Tower from the Flames fury free,  
Spared only for this greater Cruelty,  
On whose high Top Old Priam used to stand,  
And with his Eye, and Voice our Troops command,  
Here with his Princely Grandchild oft he stood,  
And to the Boy his Father's Battles showed.  
This Tower has once our chiefest Bulwark been:  
'Tis now of Blood and Death the dismal Scene.  
Hither the giddy Rabble flocked to see  
With greedy Eyes the Royal Infant die.  
From this high Tower a pretty distant space,  
A steep and lofty Hill commands the Place.  
On That a Rock, on which the gazing Crowd,  
Big with the cruel Expectation, stood.  
On all the neighbouring Trees, whole Armies sat:  
(The loaded Branches cracked beneath their weight.)  
And one with haste some ragged Mount does climb:  
Another (Oh! the sacrilegious Crime!)  
Stands on great Hector's Tomb; One climbs a Wall,  
Which, with its wretched weight does fall.   

Lo! the Press breaks; and big with cruel Joy  
The cursed Ulysses leads the Princely Boy.  
Th' undaunted Youth mounts fearless to the Place,  
With Innocence triumphant in his Face.  
When from the Tower he saw the gazing Rout,  
Round him he fling a scornful Look about.  
So some fierce Lion's whelp, whose tender Age  
Has not as yet well armed his toothless Rage,  
With eager Fury whets his horny Claws,  
And tries the utmost anger of his Jaws.  
Thus fearless the young Martyr thither came,  
And filled his cruel Enemies with Shame.  
This, when they saw, strait the relenting Crowd  
In sighs and tears expressed their Grief aloud:  
Nay, even Ulysses wept, and 'spight of all  
His Cruelty, resistless Tears did fall.  
Then, when the cruel Sacrifice was done,  
Pitied by All, Himself unmoved alone,  
Down the deep Precipice himself He cast,  
And 'midst his Country's Ruins breathed his Last.   And. 
What barbarous cruel Colehian e'er could hear,  
Much less perform such Crimes? What Scythian dare  
But think upon this Murder, and not Fear?  
To be compared with These, Busiris was too good:  
His Altars ne'er were stained with Infants Blood.  
This was a Crime unknown to Diomedes;  
He with such tender meat his Horses scorned to feed.  
Dear Child! to what sierce Beast art ' made a Prey?  
Where shall thy mangled, scattered Members lay?  Mess. 
Talk not of Them: when from the Tower he flew,  
The Fall destroyed both Life, and Carcase too.  
His innocent Blood the guilty Turret stains:  
He sprinkled all the Grecians with his Brains,  
And nothing now of the dear Boy remains.  And. 
Still like his Father—  Mess. 

When this was done, at first the Rabble mourned,  
But to a greater Cruelty returned.  
With eager haste the thronging Grecians came,  
And flock about the cursed Achilles' ' Tomb.  
This place was destined for the Scene of Blood.  
On two near Hills the gazing Army stood:  
Between a fatal Valley stretched out wide,  
And Groves of Spears appeared on every side,  
Here for the beauteous Bride they all attend,  
Some glad that with her Life, their Fears must end:  
Some, that she was the last of Priam's stock:  
Some seem to hate the Crime, on which they gladly look:  
And here and there a Trojan did appear,  
Who came to see her die, and shed a Tear.   

Then through a Lane of Grecians, in a row,  
Before the Bride Five Nuptial Torches go.  
Next, Helen followed, hanging down her Head.  
(Oh! may Hermione such a Husband wed!)  
Strait She appeared alone, with Looks might move  
Grief in each Trojan, in each Grecian Love.  
Her Eyes she turned with modest sorrow down,  
And in her Face unusual Beauties shone:  
So Evening Blushes grace the setting Sun.  
Her Courage some, and some her Beauty praised,  
But all with various Passions strangely gazed,  
Some sad, some shamed, some weeping, all amazed.   

Thus in slow state the mournful Train was come,  
Where Pyrrhus standing on his Father's Tomb,  
With joyful anger held the fatal Knife,  
Prepared to cut the tender Thread of Life.  
Fearless She looked her Murderers in the Face,  
Whilst silent sorrow filled a round the Place.  
Moved at her Godlike Constancy, He shook,  
And scarce had Courage left to give the stroke,  
Strait as the cruel weapon reached her Heart,  
A streaming spring of Vital Blood did start  
Through the wide wound. She still out braved her Fate,  
And made Achilles' ' Ashes groan beneath her weight.   

What Tongue the Grief, and Horror can express,  
Which did both Parties equally possess?  
In silent Tears their Griefs the Trojans showed:  
The howling Grecians spoke their Pity Loud.  
About the Tomb, at first the Deluge flowed,  
And strait the thirsty Ashes drank the sinking Blood.   Hec. 
Go, barbarous Grecians, now securely go,  
And let your swelling Canvas loosely flow.  
Now boasty have murdered all the hopes of Troy,  
YE have killed a harmless Virgin, and a helpless Boy.  

Whither! Oh! whither shall I bear my Grief?  
Where spend the Remnant of my hated Life?  
Shall I for Priam, or for Hector groan?  
Or for them All? Or for Myself alone?  
Come, welcome: Death, thou best, thou only Cure  
Of all I must, or all I do endure.  
From Me alone the cruel Tyrant runs:  
And midst these Swords, and Flames a wretched Captive shuns.  
Why, cruel Grecians, why was I preserved?  
To what fresh Miseries am I still reserved?   Mess. 
We must be gone: for see, the Grecian Sails  
Are loosened to receive the flying Gales.   
FINIS.   

Licenced,  
Feb. 5. 1681. Ro. L'Estrange.