_Ulysses._ Bring forth the boy, then thou mayst ask for grace.
_Andromache._ Come hither from thy hiding-place, my son, 730 Thy wretched mother's lamentable theft.
_Andromache._ Ulysses, this is he who terrifies The thousand keels, behold him. Fall, my son, A suppliant at the feet of this thy lord, And do him reverence; nor think it base, 735 Since Fortune bids the wretched to submit. Forget thy royal race, the power of one Renowned through all the world; Hector forget; Act the sad captive on thy bended knee, And imitate thy mother's tears, if yet 740 Thou feelest not thy woes. [_To Ulysses._] Troy saw long since The weeping of a royal child: the tears Of youthful Priam turned aside the threats Of stern Alcides; he, the warrior fierce Who tamed wild beasts, who from the shattered gates 745 Of shadowy Dis a hidden, upward path Opened, was conquered by his young foe's tears. 'Take back,' he said, 'the reins of government, Receive thy father's kingdom, but maintain Thy scepter with a better faith than he;' 750 So fared the captives of this conqueror; Study the gentle wrath of Hercules! Or do the arms alone of Hercules Seem pleasing to thee? Of as noble race As Priam's, at thy feet a suppliant lies, 755 And asks of thee his life; let fortune give To whom she will Troy's kingdom.
_Ulysses._ Indeed the mother's sorrow moves me much! Our Grecian mothers' sorrow moves me more, To cause whose bane this child would grow a man. 760
_Andromache._ These ruins of a land to ashes burned Could he arouse? Or could these hands build Troy? Troy has no hope, if such is all remains. We Trojans can no longer cause thee fear. And has the child his father's spirit? Yes, 765 But broken. Troy destroyed, his father's self Had lost that courage which great ills o'ercame. If vengeance is your wish, what worse revenge Than to this noble neck to fit the yoke? Make him a slave. Who ever yet denied 770 This bounty to a king?
_Ulysses._ The seer forbids, 'Tis not Ulysses who denies the boon.
_Andromache._ Artificer of fraud, plotter of guile, Whose warlike valor never felled a foe; By the deceit and guile of whose false heart 775 E'en Greeks have fallen, dost thou make pretense Of blameless god or prophet? 'Tis the work Of thine own heart. Thou, who by night mak'st war, Now dar'st at last one deed in open day-- A brave boy's death.