ANDROMACHE. 
Oh, I could have borne mine enemy’s bed!

TALTHYBIUS.

And speaking in the council of the host
Odysseus hath prevailed—­

ANDROMACHE.

O lost! lost! lost!... 
Forgive me!  It is not easy....

TALTHYBIUS.

...  That the son
Of one so perilous be not fostered on
To manhood—­

ANDROMACHE.

God; may his own counsel fall
On his own sons!

TALTHYBIUS.

...  But from this crested wall
Of Troy be dashed, and die....  Nay, let the thing
Be done.  Thou shalt be wiser so.  Nor cling
So fiercely to him.  Suffer as a brave
Woman in bitter pain; nor think to have
Strength which thou hast not.  Look about thee here! 
Canst thou see help, or refuge anywhere? 
Thy land is fallen and thy lord, and thou
A prisoner and alone, one woman; how
Canst battle against us?  For thine own good
I would not have thee strive, nor make ill blood
And shame about thee....  Ah, nor move thy lips
In silence there, to cast upon the ships
Thy curse!  One word of evil to the host,
This babe shall have no burial, but be tossed
Naked....  Ah, peace!  And bear as best thou may,
War’s fortune.  So thou shalt not go thy way
Leaving this child unburied; nor the Greek
Be stern against thee, if thy heart be meek!

ANDROMACHE (to the child).

Go, die, my best-beloved, my cherished one,
In fierce men’s hands, leaving me here alone. 
Thy father was too valiant; that is why
They slay thee!  Other children, like to die,
Might have been spared for that.  But on thy head
His good is turned to evil.

O thou bed
And bridal; O the joining of the hand,
That led me long ago to Hector’s land
To bear, O not a lamb for Grecian swords
To slaughter, but a Prince o’er all the hordes
Enthroned of wide-flung Asia....  Weepest thou? 
Nay, why, my little one?  Thou canst not know. 
And Father will not come; he will not come;
Not once, the great spear flashing, and the tomb
Riven to set thee free!  Not one of all
His brethren, nor the might of Ilion’s wall. 
  How shall it be?  One horrible spring ... deep,
    deep
Down.  And thy neck....  Ah God, so cometh
    sleep!... 
And none to pity thee!...  Thou little thing
That curlest in my arms, what sweet scents cling
All round thy neck!  Beloved; can it be
All nothing, that this bosom cradled thee
And fostered; all the weary nights, wherethrough
I watched upon thy sickness, till I grew
Wasted with watching?  Kiss me.  This one time;
Not ever again.  Put up thine arms, and climb
About my neck:  now, kiss me, lips to lips.... 
  O, ye have found an anguish that outstrips
All tortures of the East, ye gentle Greeks! 
Why will ye slay this innocent, that seeks
No wrong?...  O Helen, Helen, thou ill tree