_Andromache_ [_in scorn_]: Now great indeed Must be the evil when our Helen weeps! But dry thy tears, and tell what Ithacus Is plotting now, what latest deed of shame? Must this poor maid be hurled from Ida's heights, Or from the top of Ilium's citadel? Must she be flung into the cruel sea 930 That roars beneath this lofty precipice, Which our Sigeum's rugged crag uprears? Come, tell what thou dost hide with mimic grief. In all our ills there's none so great as this, That any princess of our royal house Should wed with Pyrrhus. Speak thy dark intent; 935 What further suffering remains to bear? To compensate our woes, this grace impart, That we may know the worst that can befall. Behold us ready for the stroke of fate. _Helen:_ Alas! I would 'twere mine to break the bonds Which bind me to this life I hate; to die By Pyrrhus' cruel hand upon the tomb 940 Of great Achilles, and to share thy fate, O poor Polyxena. For even now, The ghost doth bid that thou be sacrificed, And that thy blood be spilt upon his tomb; That thus thy parting soul may mate with his, Within the borders of Elysium. _Andromache_ [_observing the joy with which_ Polyxena _receives these tidings_]: Behold, her soul leaps up with mighty joy 945 At thought of death; she seeks the festal robes Wherewith to deck her for the bridal rites, And yields her golden locks to Helen's hands. Who late accounted wedlock worse than death, Now hails her death with more than bridal joy. [_Observing_ Hecuba.] But see, her mother stands amazed with woe, Her spirit staggers 'neath the stroke of fate. 950 [_To_ Hecuba.] Arise, O wretched queen, stand firm in soul, And gird thy fainting spirit up. [Hecuba _falls fainting_.] Behold, By what a slender thread her feeble life Is held to earth. How slight the barrier now That doth remove our Hecuba from joy. But no, she breathes, alas! she lives again, For from the wretched, death is first to flee.