_Andromache:_ Such sacrilege the Greeks, though impious, Have never dared. 'Tis true the sacred fanes, E'en of your favoring gods, ye have defiled; 670 But still your wildest rage hath spared our tombs. I will resist, and match your warriors' arms With my weak woman's hands. Despairing wrath Will nerve my arm. Like that fierce Amazon, Who wrought dire havoc in the Grecian ranks; Or some wild Maenad by the god o'ercome, Who, thrysus-armed, doth roam the trackless glades With frenzied step, and, clean of sense bereft, 675 Strikes deadly blows but feels no counter-stroke: So will I rush against ye in defense Of Hector's tomb, and perish, if I must, An ally of his shade. _Ulysses_ [_to attendants_]: Do ye delay, And do a woman's tears and empty threats And outcry move you? Speed the task I bid. 680 _Andromache_ [_struggling with attendants_]: Destroy me first! Oh, take my life instead! [_The attendants roughly thrust her away._] Alas, they thrust me back! O Hector, come, Break through the bands of fate, upheave the earth, That thou mayst stay Ulysses' lawless hand. Thy spirit will suffice.--Behold he comes! His arms he brandishes, and firebrands hurls. Ye Greeks, do ye behold him, or do I, With solitary sight, alone behold? 685 _Ulysses:_ This tomb and all it holds will I destroy. _Andromache_ [_aside, while the attendants begin to demolish the tomb_]: Ah me, can I permit the son and sire To be in common ruin overwhelmed? Perchance I may prevail upon the Greeks By prayer.--But even now those massive stones Will crush my hidden child.--Oh, let him die, In any other way, and anywhere, 690 If only father crush not son, and son No desecration bring to father's dust. [_Casts herself at the feet of_ Ulysses.] A humble suppliant at thy knees I fall, Ulysses; I, who never yet to man Have bent the knee in prayer, thy feet embrace. By all the gods, have pity on my woes, And with a calm and patient heart receive My pious prayers. And as the heavenly powers 695 Have high exalted thee in pride and might, The greater mercy show thy fallen foes. Whate'er is given to wretched suppliant Is loaned to fate. So mayst thou see again Thy faithful wife; so may Laërtes live To greet thee yet again; so may thy son Behold thy face, and, more than that thou canst pray, 700 Excel his father's valor and the years Of old Laërtes. Pity my distress: The only comfort left me in my woe, Is this my son. _Ulysses:_ Produce the boy--and pray.