HKB
ANDROMACHE.
O Mother, having ears, hear thou this word Fear-conquering, till thy heart as mine be stirred With joy. To die is only not to be; And better to be dead than grievously Living. They have no pain, they ponder not Their own wrong. But the living that is brought From joy to heaviness, his soul doth roam, As in a desert, lost, from its old home. Thy daughter lieth now as one unborn, Dead, and naught knowing of the lust and scorn That slew her. And I ... long since I drew my bow Straight at the heart of good fame; and I know My shaft hit; and for that am I the more Fallen from peace. All that men praise us for, I loved for Hector's sake, and sought to win. I knew that alway, be there hurt therein Or utter innocence, to roam abroad Hath ill report for women; so I trod Down the desire thereof, and walked my way In mine own garden. And light words and gay Parley of women never passed my door. The thoughts of mine own heart ... I craved no more.... Spoke with me, and I was happy. Constantly I brought fair silence and a tranquil eye For Hector's greeting, and watched well the way Of living, where to guide and where obey. And, lo! some rumour of this peace, being gone Forth to the Greek, hath cursed me. Achilles' son, So soon as I was taken, for his thrall Chose me. I shall do service in the hall Of them that slew.... How? Shall I thrust aside Hector's beloved face, and open wide My heart to this new lord? Oh, I should stand A traitor to the dead! And if my hand And flesh shrink from him ... lo, wrath and despite O'er all the house, and I a slave!
One night, One night ... aye, men have said it ... maketh tame A woman in a man's arms.... O shame, shame! What woman's lips can so forswear her dead, And give strange kisses in another's bed? Why, not a dumb beast, not a colt will run In the yoke untroubled, when her mate is gone-- A thing not in God's image, dull, unmoved Of reason. O my Hector! best beloved, That, being mine, wast all in all to me, My prince, my wise one, O my majesty Of valiance! No man's touch had ever come Near me, when thou from out my father's home Didst lead me and make me thine.... And thou art dead, And I war-flung to slavery and the bread Of shame in Hellas, over bitter seas! What knoweth she of evils like to these, That dead Polyxena, thou weepest for? There liveth not in my life any more The hope that others have. Nor will I tell The lie to mine own heart, that aught is well Or shall be well.... Yet, O, to dream were sweet!
LEADER.
Thy feet have trod the pathway of my feet, And thy clear sorrow teacheth me mine own.
HECUBA.