_Andromache:_ O man of lies, artificer of crime, 750 By whom in open fight no foe is slain, But by whose tricks and cunning, evil mind The very chiefs of Greece are overthrown, Dost thou now seek to hide thy dark intent Behind a priest and guiltless gods? Nay, nay: This deed within thy sinful heart was born. Thou midnight prowler, brave to work the death 755 Of this poor boy, dost dare at length alone To do a deed, and that in open day? _Ulysses:_ Ulysses' valor do the Grecians know Full well, and all too well the Phrygians. But we are wasting time with empty words. The impatient ships are tugging at their chains. _Andromache:_ But grant a brief delay, while to my son 760 I pay the rites of woe, and sate my grief With tears and last embrace. _Ulysses:_ I would 'twere mine To spare thy tears; but what alone I may, I'll give thee respite and a time for grief. Then weep thy fill, for tears do soften woe. 765 _Andromache_ [_to_ Astyanax]: O darling pledge of love, thou only stay Of our poor fallen house, last pang of Troy; O thou whom Grecians fear, O mother's hope, Alas too vain, for whom, with folly blind, I prayed the war-earned praises of his sire, His royal grandsire's prime of years and strength: But God hath scorned my prayers. 770 Thou shalt not live To wield the scepter in the royal courts Of ancient Troy, to make thy people's laws, And send beneath thy yoke the conquered tribes; Thou shalt not fiercely slay the fleeing Greeks, Nor from thy car in retribution drag Achilles' son; the dart from thy small hand 775 Thou ne'er shalt hurl, nor boldly press the chase Of scattered beasts throughout the forest glades; And when the sacred lustral day is come, Troy's yearly ritual of festal games, The charging squadrons of the noble youth Thou shalt not lead, thyself the noblest born; Nor yet among the blazing altar fires, 780 With nimble feet the ancient sacred dance At some barbaric temple celebrate, While horns swell forth swift-moving melodies. Oh, mode of death, far worse than bloody war! More tearful sight than mighty Hector's end The walls of Troy must see. 785 _Ulysses:_ Now stay thy tears, For mighty grief no bound or respite finds.