_Andromache_ [_goes to the tomb and calls to_ Astyanax]: Come forth, my son, from the place of thy hiding 705 Where thy mother bestowed thee with weeping and fear. [Astyanax _appears from the tomb_. Andromache _presents him to_ Ulysses.] Here, here is the lad, Ulysses, behold him; The fear of thy armies, the dread of thy fleet! [_To_ Astyanax.] My son, thy suppliant hands upraise, And at the feet of this proud lord, Bend low in prayer, nor think it base 710 To suffer the lot which our fortune appoints. Put out of mind thy regal birth, Thy agéd grandsire's glorious rule Of wide domain; and think no more Of Hector, thy illustrious sire. Be captive alone--bend the suppliant knee; 715 And if thine own fate move thee not, Then weep by thy mother's woe inspired. [_To_ Ulysses.] That older Troy beheld the tears Of its youthful king, and those tears prevailed To stay the fierce threats of the victor's wrath, 720 The mighty Hercules. Yea he, To whose vast strength all monsters had yielded, Who burst the stubborn gates of hell, And o'er that murky way returned, Even he was o'ercome by the tears of a boy. 725 "Take the reins of the state," to the prince he said; "Reign thou on thy father's lofty throne, But reign with the scepter of power--and truth." Thus did that hero subdue his foes. And thus do thou temper thy wrath with forbearance. 730 And let not the power of great Hercules, only, Be model to thee. Behold at thy feet, As noble a prince as Priam of old Pleads only for life! The kingdom of Troy Let fortune bestow where she will. 735 _Ulysses_ [_aside_]: This woe-struck mother's grief doth move me sore; But still the Grecian dames must more prevail, Unto whose grief this lad is growing up. _Andromache_ [_hearing him_]: What? These vast ruins of our fallen town, To very ashes brought, shall he uprear? Shall these poor boyish hands build Troy again? 740 No hopes indeed hath Troy, if such her hopes. So low the Trojans lie, there's none so weak That he need fear our power. Doth lofty thought Of mighty Hector nerve his boyish heart? What valor can a fallen Hector stir? When this our Troy was lost, his father's self Would then have bowed his lofty spirit's pride; For woe can bend and break the proudest soul. 745 If punishment be sought, some heavier fate Let him endure; upon his royal neck Let him support the yoke of servitude. Must princes sue in vain for this poor boon? _Ulysses:_ Not I, but Calchas doth refuse thy prayer.