Andromache [1]
art to her, who, erst thy queen, is now sunk in misery; what are they doing? What new schemes are they devising in their eagerness to take away my wretched life? MAID Alas! poor lady, they intend to slay thy son, whom thou hast privily conveyed from out the house. ANDROMACHE Ah me! Has she heard that my babe was put out of her reach? Who told her? Woe is me! how utterly undone! MAID I know not, but thus much of their schemes I heard myself; and Menelaus has left the house to fetch him. ANDROMACHE Then am I lost; ah, my child! those vultures twain will take and slay thee; while he who is called thy father lingers still in Delphi. MAID True, for had he been here thou wouldst not have fared so hardly, am sure; but, as it is, thou art friendless. ANDROMACHE Have no tidings come that Peleus may arrive? MAID He is too old to help thee if he came. ANDROMACHE And yet I sent for him more than once. MAID Surely thou dost not suppose that any of thy messengers heed thee? ANDROMACHE Why should they? Wilt thou then go for me? MAID How shall I explain my long absence from the house? 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.) CHORUS (singing)
strophe 1
Lady, thus keeping thy weary station without pause upon the floor of Thetis' shrine, Phthian though I am, to thee a daughter of Asia I come, to see if I can devise some remedy for these perplexing troubles, which have involved thee and Hermione in fell discord, because to thy sorrow thou sharest with her the love of Achilles' son.
antistrophe 1
Recognize thy position, weigh the present evil into the which thou art come. Thou art a Trojan captive; thy rival is thy mistress, a true-born daughter of Sparta. Leave then this home of sacrifice, the shrine of our sea-goddess. How can it avail thee to waste thy comeliness and disfigure it by weeping by reason of a mistress's harsh usage? Might will prevail against thee; why vainly toil in thy feebleness?
strophe 2
Come, quit the bright sanctuary of
strophe 1
Lady, thus keeping thy weary station without pause upon the floor of Thetis' shrine, Phthian though I am, to thee a daughter of Asia I come, to see if I can devise some remedy for these perplexing troubles, which have involved thee and Hermione in fell discord, because to thy sorrow thou sharest with her the love of Achilles' son.
antistrophe 1
Recognize thy position, weigh the present evil into the which thou art come. Thou art a Trojan captive; thy rival is thy mistress, a true-born daughter of Sparta. Leave then this home of sacrifice, the shrine of our sea-goddess. How can it avail thee to waste thy comeliness and disfigure it by weeping by reason of a mistress's harsh usage? Might will prevail against thee; why vainly toil in thy feebleness?
strophe 2
Come, quit the bright sanctuary of