_Hecuba:_ What cruel, ruthless providence hath given A royal slave to serve unkingly[50] men? What hostile god divides our captive band? What heartless arbiter of destiny So carelessly allots our future lords, That Hector's mother is assigned to him 985 Who hath by favor gained th' accursed arms Which laid my Hector low? And must I then Obey the Ithacan? Now conquered quite, Alas, and doubly captive do I seem, And sore beset by all my woes at once. Now must I blush, not for my slavery, 990 But for my master's sake. Yet Ithaca, That barren land by savage seas beset, Shall not receive my bones. Then up, Ulysses, And lead thy captive home. I'll not refuse To follow thee as lord; for well I know That my untoward fates shall follow me. No gentle winds shall fill thy homeward sails, 995 But stormy blasts shall rage; destructive wars, And fires, and Priam's evil fates and mine, Shall haunt thee everywhere. But even now, While yet those ills delay, hast thou received Some punishment. For I usurped thy lot, And stole thy chance to win a fairer prize. [_Enter_ Pyrrhus.] But see, with hurried step and lowering brow, Stern Pyrrhus comes. 1000 [_To_ Pyrrhus.] Why dost thou hesitate? Come pierce my vitals with thy impious sword, And join the parents of Achilles' bride. Make haste, thou murderer of agéd men, My blood befits thee too. [_Pointing to_ Polyxena.] Away with her; Defile the face of heaven with murder's stain, Defile the shades.--But why make prayer to you? 1005 I'll rather pray the sea whose savage rage Befits these bloody rites; the selfsame doom, Which for my ship I pray and prophesy, May that befall the thousand ships of Greece, And so may evil fate engulf them all. * * * * * _Chorus:_ 'Tis sweet for one in grief to know That he but feels a common woe; 1010 And lighter falls the stroke of care Which all with equal sorrow bear; For selfish and malign is human grief 1015 Which in the tears of others finds relief. Remove all men to fortune born, And none will think himself forlorn; Remove rich acres spreading wide, 1020 With grazing herds on every side: Straight will the poor man's drooping soul revive, For none are poor if all in common thrive. 1025