_Andromache:_ This was the one thing lacking to our woes-- That they should bid us smile when we would weep. See there! Our city lies in smouldering heaps; A fitting time to talk of marriages! 890 But who would dare refuse? When Helen bids, Who would not hasten to the wedding rites? Thou common curse of Greeks and Trojans too, Thou fatal scourge, thou wasting pestilence, Dost thou behold where buried heroes lie? And dost thou see these poor unburied bones That everywhere lie whitening on the plain? This desolation hath thy marriage wrought. 895 For thee the blood of Asia flowed; for thee Did Europe's heroes bleed, whilst thou, well pleased, Didst look abroad upon the warring kings, Who perished in thy cause, thou faithless jade! There! get thee gone! prepare thy marriages! What need of torches for the solemn rites? What need of fire? Troy's self shall furnish forth 900 The ruddy flames to light her latest bride. Then come, my sisters, come and celebrate Lord Pyrrhus' nuptial day in fitting wise: With groans and wailing let the scene resound. _Helen:_ Though mighty grief is ne'er by reason swayed, And oft the very comrades of its woe, Unreasoning, hates; yet can I bear to stand 905 And plead my cause before a hostile judge, For I have suffered heavier ills than these. Behold, Andromache doth Hector mourn, And Hecuba her Priam; each may claim The public sympathy; but Helena Alone must weep for Paris secretly. Is slavery's yoke so heavy and so hard 910 To bear? This grievous yoke have I endured, Ten years a captive. Doth your Ilium lie In dust, your gods o'erthrown? I know 'tis hard To lose one's native land, but harder still To fear the land that gave you birth. Your woes Are lightened by community of grief; But friend and foe are foes alike to me. Long since, the fated lot has hung in doubt 915 That sorts you to your lords; but I alone, Without the hand of fate am claimed at once. Think you that I have been the cause of war, And Troy's great overthrow? Believe it true If in a Spartan vessel I approached Your land; but if, sped on by Phrygian oars, 920 I came a helpless prey; if to the judge Of beauty's rival claims I fell the prize By conquering Venus' gift, then pity me, The plaything of the fates. An angry judge Full soon my cause shall have--my Grecian lord. Then leave to him the question of my guilt, And judge me not. But now forget thy woes A little space, Andromache, and bid 925 This royal maid--but as I think on her My tears unbidden flow. [_She stops, overcome by emotion._]