AEn. Suppose one Ajax, or Achilles lost, They can repair with more that single loss:  Troy has but one, one Hector.

Hect. No, AEneas! 
What then art thou; and what is Troilus? 
What will Astyanax be?

Priam. An Hector one day,
But you must let him live to be a Hector;
And who shall make him such, when you are gone? 
Who shall instruct his tenderness in arms,
Or give his childhood lessons of the war? 
Who shall defend the promise of his youth,
And make it bear in manhood? the young sapling
Is shrouded long beneath the mother-tree,
Before it be transplanted from its earth,
And trust itself for growth.

Hect. Alas, my father! 
You have not drawn one reason from yourself,
But public safety, and my son’s green years: 
In this neglecting that main argument,
Trust me you chide my filial piety;
As if I could be won from my resolves
By Troy, or by my son, or any name
More dear to me than yours.

Priam. I did not name myself, because I know
When thou art gone, I need no Grecian sword
To help me die, but only Hector’s loss.—­
Daughter, why speak not you? why stand you silent? 
Have you no right in Hector, as a wife?

Andro. I would be worthy to be Hector’s wife: 
And had I been a man, as my soul’s one,
I had aspired a nobler name,—­his friend. 
How I love Hector,—­need I say I love him?—­
I am not but in him: 
But when I see him arming for his honour,
His country and his gods, that martial fire,
That mounts his courage, kindles even to me: 
And when the Trojan matrons wait him out
With prayers, and meet with blessings his return,
The pride of virtue beats within my breast,
To wipe away the sweat and dust of war,
And dress my hero glorious in his wounds.

Hect. Come to my arms, thou manlier virtue, come!  Thou better name than wife! would’st thou not blush To hug a coward thus? [Embrace.

Priam. Yet still I fear!

Andro. There spoke a woman; pardon, royal sir;
Has he not met a thousand lifted swords
Of thick-ranked Grecians, and shall one affright him? 
There’s not a day but he encounters armies;
And yet as safe, as if the broad-brimmed shield,
That Pallas wears, were held ’twixt him and death.

Hect. Thou know’st me well, and thou shalt praise me more; Gods make me worthy of thee!

Andro. You shall be
My knight this day; you shall not wear a cause
So black as Helen’s rape upon your breast. 
Let Paris fight for Helen; guilt for guilt: 
But when you fight for honour and for me,
Then let our equal gods behold an act,
They may not blush to crown.