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Translated by E. Coleridge.
51 pages - You are on Page 5
Andromache: Thou art a woman; thou canst invent a hundred ways.
Maid: There is a risk, for Hermione keeps no careless guard.
Andromache: Dost look to that? Thou art disowning thy friends in distress.
Maid: Not so; never taunt me with that. I will go, for of a truth
a woman and a slave is not of much account, e'en if aught befall me.
(The Maid withdraws.)
Andromache: Go then, while I will tell to heaven the lengthy tale
of lamentation, mourning, and weeping, that has ever been my hard
lot; for 'tis woman's way to delight in present misfortunes even to
keeping them always on her tongue and lips. But I have many reasons,
not merely one for tears,-my city's fall, my Hector's death, the hardness
of the lot to which I am bound, since I fell on slavery's evil days
undeservedly. 'Tis never right to call a son of man happy, till thou
hast seen his end, to judge from the way he passes it how he will
descend to that other world. (She begins to chant.) 'Twas no bride
Paris took with him to the towers of Ilium, but curse to his bed when
he brought Helen to her bower. For her sake, Troy, did eager warriors,
sailing from Hellas in a thousand ships, capture and make thee a prey
to fire and sword; and the son of sea-born Thetis mounted on his chariot
dragged my husband Hector round the walls, ah woe is me! while I was
hurried from my chamber to the beach, with slavery's hateful pall
upon me. And many tear I shed as I left my city, my bridal bower,
and my husband in the dust. Woe, woe is me! why should I prolong my
life, to serve Hermione? Her cruelty it is that drives me hither to
the image of the goddess to throw my suppliant arms about it, melting
to tears as doth a spring that gushes from the rock.
(The Chorus of Phthian Women enters.)
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