_Andromache._ Alas, my son, Would that thou wert within thy mother's arms! Would that I knew what fate encompassed thee, What region holds thee, torn from my embrace! Although my breast were pierced with hostile spears, 570 My hands bound fast with wounding chains, my side By biting flame were girdled, not for this Would I put off my mother-guardianship! What spot, what fortune holds thee now, my son? Art thou a wanderer in an unknown land, 575 Or have the flames of Troy devoured thee? Or does the conqueror in thy blood rejoice? Or, snatched by some wild beast, perhaps thou liest On Ida's summit, food for Ida's birds?
_Ulysses._ No more pretend. Thou mayst not so deceive 580 Ulysses; I have power to overcome A mother's wiles, although she be divine. Put by thy empty plots; where is thy son?
_Andromache._ Where is my Hector? Where the Trojan host? Where Priam? Thou seek'st one, I seek them all. 585
_Ulysses._ What thou refusest willingly to tell, Thou shalt be forced to say.
_Andromache._ She rests secure Who can, who ought, nay, who desires to die.
_Ulysses._ Near death may put an end to such proud boast.
_Andromache._ Ulysses, if thou hop'st through fear to force 590 Andromache to speak, threat longer life; Death is to me a wished-for messenger.
_Ulysses._ With fire, scourge, torment, even death itself, I will compel thy heart's deep-hidden thought; Necessity is stronger far than death. 595
_Andromache._ Threat flames, wounds, hunger, thirst, the bitter stings Of cruel grief, all torments, sword plunged deep Within this bosom, or the prison dark-- Whatever angry, fearful victors may; Learn that a loving mother knows no fear. 600
_Ulysses._ And yet this love, in which thou standst entrenched So stubbornly, admonishes the Greeks To think of their own children. Even now, After these long ten years, this weary war, I should fear less the danger Calchas threats, 605 If for myself I feared--but thou prepar'st War for Telemachus.
_Andromache._ Unwillingly I give the Grecians joy, but I must give. Ulysses, anguish must confess its pain; Rejoice, O son of Atreus, carry back 610 As thou art wont, to the Pelasgian host The joyous news: great Hector's son is dead.
_Andromache._ Fall on me else The greatest ill the victor can inflict: Fate free me by an easy, timely death, 615 And hide me underneath my native soil! Lightly on Hector lie his country's earth As it is true that, hidden from the light, Deep in the tomb, among the shades he rests.