_Andromache:_ May thy proud victor's strongest threat befall, And bring my death with quick and easy stroke; 600 May I be buried in my native soil, May earth press lightly on my Hector's bones: According as my son, deprived of light, Amidst the dead doth lie, and, to the tomb Consigned, hath known the funeral honors due To those who live no more. 605 _Ulysses_ [_joyfully_]: Then are the fates Indeed fulfilled, since Hector's son is dead, And I with joy unto the Greeks will go, With grateful tale of peace at last secure. [_Aside._] But stay, Ulysses, this rash joy of thine! The Greeks will readily believe _thy_ word; But what dost thou believe?--his mother's oath. Would then a mother feign her offspring's death, And fear no baleful omens of that word? They omens fear who have no greater dread. 610 Her truth hath she upheld by straightest oath. If that she perjured be, what greater fear Doth vex her soul? Now have I urgent need Of all my skill and cunning, all my arts, By which so oft Ulysses hath prevailed; For truth, though long concealed, can never die. Now watch the mother; note her grief, her tears, 615 Her sighs; with restless step, now here, now there, She wanders, and she strains her anxious ears To catch some whispered word. 'Tis evident, She more by present fear than grief is swayed. So must I ply her with the subtlest art. [_To_ Andromache.] When others mourn, 'tis fit in sympathy To speak with kindred grief; but thou, poor soul, I bid rejoice that thou hast lost thy son, 620 Whom cruel fate awaited; for 'twas willed That from the lofty tower that doth remain Alone of Troy's proud walls, he should be dashed, And headlong fall to quick and certain death. _Andromache_ [_aside_]: My soul is faint within me, and my limbs Do quake; while chilling fear congeals my blood. 625 _Ulysses_ [_aside_]: She trembles; here must I pursue my quest. Her fear betrayeth her; wherefore this fear Will I redouble.-- [_To attendants._] Go in haste, my men, And find this foe of Greece, the last defense Of Troy, who by his mother's cunning hand Is safe bestowed, and set him in our midst. [_Pretending that the boy is discovered._] 'Tis well! He's found. Now bring him here with haste. 630 [_To_ Andromache.] Why dost thou start, and tremble? Of a truth Thy son is dead, for so hast thou declared.