_Thers._ Now the furies take AEneas, for letting them sleep upon their quarrel; who knows but rest may cool their brains, and make them rise maukish to mischief upon consideration? May each of them dream he sees his cockatrice in t'other's arms; and be stabbing one another in their sleep, to remember them of their business when they wake: let them be punctual to the point of honour; and, if it were possible, let both be first at the place of execution; let neither of them have cogitation enough, to consider 'tis a whore they fight for; and let them value their lives at as little as they are worth: and lastly, let no succeeding fools take warning by them; but, in imitation of them, when a strumpet is in question, Let them beneath their feet all reason trample, And think it great to perish by example. [_Exit._ ACT V. SCENE I. HECTOR, _Trojans,_ ANDROMACHE. _Hect._ The blue mists rise from off the nether grounds, And the sun mounts apace. To arms, to arms! I am resolved to put to the utmost proof The fate of Troy this day. _Andr._ [_Aside._] Oh wretched woman, oh! _Hect._ Methought I heard you sigh, Andromache. _Andr._ Did you, my lord? _Hect._ Did you, my lord? you answer indirectly; Just when I said, that I would put our fate Upon the extremest proof, you fetched a groan; And, as you checked yourself for what you did, You stifled it and stopt. Come, you are sad. _Andr._ The gods forbid! _Hect._ What should the gods forbid? _Andr._ That I should give you cause of just offence. _Hect._ You say well; but you look not chearfully. I mean this day to waste the stock of war, And lay it prodigally out in blows. Come, gird my sword, and smile upon me, love; Like victory, come flying to my arms, And give me earnest of desired success. _Andr._ The gods protect you, and restore you to me! _Hect._ What, grown a coward! Thou wert used, Andromache, To give my courage courage; thou would'st cry,-- Go Hector, day grows old, and part of fame Is ravished from thee by thy slothful stay. _Andr._ [_Aside._] What shall I do to seem the same I was?-- Come, let me gird thy fortune to thy side, And conquest sit as close and sure as this. [_She goes to gird his sword, and it falls._ Now mercy, heaven! the gods avert this omen! _Hect._ A foolish omen! take it up again, And mend thy error. _Andr._ I cannot, for my hand obeys me not; But, as in slumbers, when we fain would run From our imagined fears, our idle feet Grow to the ground, our struggling voice dies inward; So now, when I would force myself to chear you, My faltering tongue can give no glad presage: Alas, I am no more Andromache.