_Andromache:_ Oh, that thou wert within my power to give, My son, and that I knew what cruel fate Doth hold thee now, snatched from my eager arms-- Where thou dost lie; then, though my breast were pierced With hostile spears, and though my hands with chains Were bound, and scorching flames begirt my sides, 560 Thy mother's faith would ne'er betray her child. O son, what place, what lot doth hold thee now? Dost thou with wandering footsteps roam the fields? Wast thou consumed amid the raging flames? Hath some rude victor reveled in thy blood? 565 Or, by some ravening beast hast thou been slain, And liest now a prey for savage birds? _Ulysses:_ Away with feignéd speech; no easy task For thee to catch Ulysses: 'tis my boast That mother's snares, and even goddesses' I have o'ercome. Have done with vain deceit. 570 Where is thy son? _Andromache:_ And where is Hector too? Where agéd Priam and the Phrygians? _Thou_ seekest one; _my_ quest includes them all. _Ulysses:_ By stern necessity thou soon shalt speak What thy free will withholds. _Andromache:_ But safe is she, Who can face death, who ought and longs to die. _Ulysses:_ But death brought near would still thy haughty words. _Andromache:_ If 'tis thy will, Ulysses, to inspire 575 Andromache with fear, then threaten life; For death has long been object of my prayer. _Ulysses:_ With stripes, with flames, with lingering pains of death Shalt thou be forced to speak, against thy will, What now thou dost conceal, and from thy heart Its inmost secrets bring. Necessity 580 Doth often prove more strong than piety. _Andromache:_ Prepare thy flames, thy blows, and all the arts Devised for cruel punishment: dire thirst, Starvation, every form of suffering; Come, rend my vitals with the sword's deep thrust; In dungeon, foul and dark, immure; do all 585 A victor, full of wrath and fear, can do Or dare; still will my mother heart, inspired With high and dauntless courage, scorn thy threats. _Ulysses:_ This very love of thine, which makes thee bold, Doth warn the Greeks to counsel for their sons. 590 This strife, from home remote, these ten long years Of war, and all the ills which Calchas dreads, Would slight appear to me, if for myself I feared: but thou dost threat Telemachus. _Andromache:_ Unwillingly, Ulysses, do I give To thee, or any Grecian, cause of joy; Yet must I give it, and speak out the woe, The secret grief that doth oppress my soul. 595 Rejoice, O sons of Atreus, and do thou, According to thy wont, glad tidings bear To thy companions: _Hector's son is dead_. _Ulysses:_ What proof have we that this thy word is true?