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.

Hect. Why then thy former soul is flown to me;
For I, methinks, am lifted into air,
As if my mind, mastering my mortal part,
Would bear my exalted body to the gods. 
Last night I dreamt Jove sat on Ida’s top,
And, beckoning with his hand divine from far,
He pointed to a choir of demi-gods,
Bacchus and Hercules, and all the rest,
Who, free from human toils, had gained the pitch
Of blest eternity;—­Lo there, he said,
Lo there’s a place for Hector.

Andr. Be to thy enemies this boding dream!

Hect. Why, it portends me honour and renown.

Andr. Such honour as the brave gain after death;
For I have dreamt all night of horrid slaughters,
Of trampling horses, and of chariot wheels
Wading in blood up to their axle-trees;
Of fiery demons gliding down the skies,
And Ilium brightened with a midnight blaze: 
O therefore, if thou lovest me, go not forth.

Hect. Go to thy bed again, and there dream better.—­ Ho! bid my trumpet sound.

Andr. No notes of sally, for the heaven’s sweet sake! 
’Tis not for nothing when my spirits droop;
This is a day when thy ill stars are strong,
When they have driven thy helpless genius down
The steep of heaven, to some obscure retreat.

Hect. No more; even as thou lovest my fame, no more;
My honour stands engaged to meet Achilles. 
What will the Grecians think, or what will he,
Or what will Troy, or what wilt thou thyself,
When once this ague fit of fear is o’er,
If I should lose my honour for a dream?