The Distrest Mother

Front matter

THE

Distrest Mother.

A

Dedication

To Her GRACE

THE

Dutchess of Montague.

The Preface

THE

PREFACE.

I all the Works of Genius and Invention, whether in Verse or Prose, there are in general but two Manners of Style; the one simple, natural, and easie; the other swelling, forced, and unnatural. An injudicious Affectation of Sublimity is what has betrayed a great many Authors into the latter; not considering that real Greatness in Writing, as well as in Manners, consists in an unaffected Simplicity. The true Sublime does not lie in strained Metaphors and the Pomp of Words; but rises out of noble Sentiments and strong Images of Nature; which will always appear the more conspicuous, when the Language does not swell to hide and overshadow them.

These are the Considerations, that have induced me to write this Tragedy in a Style very different from what has been usually practised amongst us in Poems of this Nature. I have had the Advantage to copy after a very great Master, whose Writings are deservedly admired in all Parts of Europe, and whose Excellencies are too well known to the Men of Letters in this Nation, to stand in need of any farther Discovery of them here. If I have been able to keep up to the Beauties of Monsieur de Racine in my Attempt, and to do him no Prejudice in the Liberties I have taken frequently to vary from so great a Poet, I shall have no Reason to be dissatisfied with the Labour it has cost me to bring the compleatest of his Works upon the English Stage.

I shall trouble my Reader no farther, than to give him some short Hints relating to this Play from the Preface of the French Author. The following Lines of Virgil mark out the Scene, the Action, and the four principal Actors in this Tragedy, together with their distinct Characters; excepting that of Hermione, whose Rage and Jealousie is sufficiently painted out in the Andromache of Euripides.

Littoraque Epiri legimus, portuque subimus Chaonio, et celsam Buthroti ascendimus Urbem——

Solemnes cum fortè dapes, & tristia dona Libabat cineri Andromache, Manesque vocabat Hectoreum ad tumulum, viridi quem cespite inanem, Et geminas, causam lacrymis, sacraverat Aras—— Dejecit vultum, et demissâ voce locuta est: O Felix una ante alias Priameia Virgo, Hostilem ad tumulum, Trojæ sub mœnibus altis Jussa mori! quæ sortitus non pertulit ullos, Nec victoris heri tetigit captiva cubile. Nos patriâ incensâ, diversa per æquora vectæ, Stirpis Achilleæ fastus, Juvenumque superbum, Servitio enixæ tulimus, qui deinde secutus Ledæam Hermionem, Lacedæmoniosque hymenæos—— Ast ilium ereptæ magno inflammatus amore Conjugis, & scelerum furiis, agitatus Orestes Excipit incautum patriasque obtruncat ad Aras. >>Virg. Æn. Lib. iii.

The great Concern of Andromache in the Greek Poet, is for the Life of Molossus, a Son she had by Pyrrhus. But it is more conformable to the general Notion we form of that Princess, at this great Distance of Time, to represent her as the Disconsolate Widow of Hector, and to suppose her the Mother only of Astyanax. Considered in this Light, no doubt, she moves our Compassion much more effectually, than she could be imagined to do in any Distress for a Son by a Second Husband.

In Order to bring about this beautiful Incident, so necessary to heighten in Andromache the Character of a tender Mother, an affectionate Wife, and a Widow full of Veneration for the Memory of her deceased Husband; the Life of Astyanax is indeed a little prolonged beyond the Term fixed to it by the general Consent of the Ancient Authours. But so long as there is nothing improbable in the Supposition, a judicious Critick will always be pleased, when he finds a Matter of Fact (especially so far removed in the dark and fabulous Ages) falsified, for the Embellishment of a whole Poem.

Prologue

PROLOGUE,

Written by Mr. Steele.

Spoken by

Since Fancy of it self is loose and vain, The Wise by Rules, that airy Power restrain; They think those Writers mad, who at their Ease Convey this House and Audience where they please; Who Nature's stated Distances confound, And make this Spot all Soils the Sun goes round: 'Tis nothing, when a fancy'd Scene's in view, To skip from Covent-Garden to Peru. But Shakespear's self transgress'd; and shall each Elf, Each Pigmy Genius, quote Great Shakespear's self! What Critick dares prescribe what's just and fit, Or mark out Limits for such boundless Wit! Shakespear could travel thro' Earth, Sea, and Air, And paint out all the Powers and Wonders there. In barren Desarts he makes Nature smile, And gives us Feasts in his Enchanted Isle. Our Author does his feeble Force confess, Nor dares pretend such Merit to transgress; Does not such shining Gifts of Genius share, And therefore makes Propriety his Care. Your Treat with study'd Decency he serves; Not only Rules of Time and Place preserves, But strives to keep his Characters intire, With French Correctness and with British Fire.

This Piece presented in a Foreign Tongue, When France was glorious, and her Monarch young, A hundred times a crowded Audience drew; A hundred times repeated, still 'twas new. Pyrrhus provok'd, to no wild Rants betray'd, >>> Resents his generous Love so ill repay'd; Does like a Man resent, a Prince upbraid. His Sentiments disclose a Royal Mind, Nor is he known a King from Guards behind. Injur'd Hermoine demands Relief; But not from heavy Narratives of Grief: In conscious Majesty her Pride is shewn; Born to avenge her Wrongs, but not bemoan. Andromache——If in our Author's Lines, As in the great Original, she shines, Nothing but from Barbarity she fears. Attend with Silence; you'll applaud with Tears.

Dramatis Personæ

Dramatis Personæ.

MEN.

| Pyrrhus, The Son of Achilles, and King of Epirus, in Love with Andromache, but betroth'd to Hermione. | | Mr. Booth.

| Phœnix, Counsellor to Pyrrhus. | Mr. Bowman.

| Orestes, the Son of Agamemnon, Ambassador from the Greeks to Pyrrhus, in Love with Hermione. | Mr. Powell.

| Pylades, Friend to Orestes, separated from him in a Storm, driven on the Coasts of Epirus, and detain'd by contrary Winds in the Court of Pyrrhus, | Mr. Mills.

|

WOMEN.

| Andromache, Hectors Widow, Captive to Pyrrhus, and Mother to Astyanax. | Mrs. Oldfield.

| Cephisa, Confidante to Andromache. | Mrs. Knight.

| Hermione, Daughter to Menelaus and Helen, betrothed to Pyrrhus. | Mrs. Porter.

| Cleone, Confidante to Hermione. | Mrs. Cox.

| Attendants to Pyrrhus and Orestes, &c.

The SCENE a great Hall in the Court of Pyrrhus at Buthrotos, the Capital City of Epirus.

Act I, Scene I.

THE

Distrest Mother.

ACT I. SCENE I.

<>Enter Orestes and Pylades.

<>Orestes. O Pylades! What's Life without a Friend! At Sight of thee my gloomy Soul clears up; My Hopes revive, and Gladness dawns within me. After an Absence of six tedious Moons, How could I hope to find my Pylades; My Joy, my Comfort! on this fatal Shore? Even in the Court of Pyrrhus? in these Realms, These hated Realms, so cross to all my Wishes. Oh, my brave Friend! may no blind Stroke of Fate Divide us more, and tear me from my self:

Pyl. O Prince! O, my Orestes! O, my Friend!—— Thus let me fpeak the Welcome of my Heart. Since I have gain'd this unexpected Meeting, Blest be the Powers, who barr'd my Way to Greece, And kept me here! e'er since th' unhappy Day,

When warring Winds (Epirus full in View) Sunder'd our Barks on the loud, stormy Main.

Orest. It was, indeed, a Morning full of Horror!

Pyl. A Thousand boading Cares have rack'd my Soul In your behalf. Often, with Tears, I mourn'd The fatal Ills, in which your Life's involv'd; And grudg'd you Dangers, which I could not share. I fear'd, to what Extreams the black Despair, That prey'd upon your Mind, might have betray'd you; And lest the Gods, in Pity to your Woes, Should hear your Pray'rs, and take the Life you loath'd. But now with Joy I see you!——The Retinue And numerous Followers, that surround you here, Speak better Fortunes, and a Mind dispos'd To relish Life.

Orest. Alas! my Friend, who knows The Destiny, to which I stand reserv'd! I come in search of an inhuman Fair; And live or dye, as the decrees my Fate.

Pyl. You much surprize me, Prince!—I thought you cur'd Of your unpity'd, unsuccessful Passion. Why, in Epirus, shou'd you hope to find Hermione less cruel, than at Sparta? I thought her Pride, and the disdainful manner, In which she treated all your constant Suff'rings, Had broke your Fetters, and assur'd your Freedom: Asham'd of your Repulse, and slighted Vows, You hated her; you talk'd of her no more. Prince you deceiv'd me.

Orest. I deceiv'd my self. Do not upbraid the Unhappy Man, that loves thee. Thou know'st, I never hid my Passion from thee: Thou saw'st it in its Birth, and in its Progress. And when at last the hoary King, her Father, Great Menelaus, gave away his Daughter, His lovely Daughter, to this happy Pyrrhus, The Avenger of his Wrongs; thou saw'st my Grief,

My Torture, my Despair; and how I dragg'd, From Sea to Sea, a heavy Chain of Woes. O Pylades! my Heart has bled within me, To see thee, prest with Sorrows not thy own. Still wand'ring with me, like a banish'd Man; Watchful, and anxious for thy wretched Friend, To temper the wild Transports of thy Mind, And save me from my self.

Pyl. Why thus unkind? Why will you envy me the pleasing Tasks Of generous Love, and sympathizing Friendship?

Orest. Thou Miracle of Truth!—But hear me on. When, in the midst of my disastrous Fate, I thought, how the divine Hermione, Deaf to the Vows, regardless of my Plaints, Gave up herself, in all her Charms, to Pyrrhus; Thou may'st remember, I abhorr'd her Name, Strove to forget her, and repay her Scorn. I made my Friends, and even my self, believe My Soul was freed. Alas! I did not see, That all the Malice of my Heart was Love. Triumphing thus, and yet a Captive still, In Greece I landed: And in Greece I found The assembled Princes all alarm'd with Fears, In which their common Safety seem'd concern'd. I join'd them: For I hoped that War and Glory Might fill my Mind, and take up all my Thoughts; And, that my shatter'd Soul, impair'd with Grief, Once more would reassume its wonted Vigour, And ev'ry idle Passion quit my Breast.

Pyl. The Thought was worthy Agamemnons Son.

Orest. But see the strange Perverseness of my Stars, Which throws me on the Rock I strove to shun! The jealous Chiefs, and all the States of Greece, With one united Voice complain of Pyrrhus; That now, forgetful of the Promise giv'n, And mindless of his godlike Father's Fate,

Astyanax he nurses in his Court; Astyanax, the Young, surviving Hope Of ruin'd Troy; Astyanax, descended From a long Race of Kings; great Hectors Son.

Pyl. A Name still dreadful in the Ears of Greece! But, Prince, you'll cease to wonder, why the Child Lives thus protected in the Court of Pyrrhus, When you shall hear, the bright Andromache, His lovely Captive, charms him from his Purpose: The Mother's Beauty guards the helpless Son.

Orest. Your Tale confirms what I have heard; and hence Spring all my Hopes. Since my proud Rival woes Another Partner to his Throne and Bed, Hermione may still be mine. Her Father, The injur'd Menelaus, thinks already His Daughter slighted, and the intended Nuptials Too long delay'd. I heard his loud Complaints With secret Pleasure; and was glad to find The ungrateful Maid neglected in her Turn, And all my Wrongs avenged in her Disgrace.

Pyl. Oh, may you keep your just Resentments warm!

Orest. Resentments? Oh, my Friend, too soon I found They grew not out of Hatred! I am betray'd: I practise on my self; and fondly plot My own Undoing. Goaded on by Love, I canvass'd all the Suffrages of Greece; And here I come, their sworn Ambassador, To speak their Jealousies, and claim this Boy.

Pyl. Pyrrhus will treat your Embassy with Scorn. Full of Achilles, his redoubted Sire, Pyrrhus is proud, impetuous, headstrong, fierce; Made up of Passions: Will he then be sway'd, And give to Death the Son of her he loves?

Orest. Oh, would he render up Hermione, And keep Astyanax; I should be blest! He must; he shall: Hermione is my Life, My Soul, my Rapture!——I'll no longer curb

The strong Desire, that hurries me to Madness: I'll give a Loose to Love; I'll bear her hence; I'll tear her from his Arms; I'll——O, ye Gods! Give me Hermione; or let me die!—— But, tell me, Pylades; how stand my Hopes? Is Pyrrhus still enamour'd with her Charms? Or do'st thou think, he'll yield me up the Prize, The dear, dear Prize, which he has ravish'd from me!

Pyl. I dare not flatter your fond Hopes so far. The King, indeed, cold to the Spartan Princess, Turns all his Passion to Andromache, Hectors afflicted Widow. But in vain, With inter-woven Love and Rage, he sues The charming Captive, obstinately cruel. Oft he alarms her for her Child, confin'd Apart; and, when her Tears begin to flow, As soon he stops them, and recalls his Threats. Hermione a thousand times has seen His ill-requited Vows return to her; And takes his Indignation all for Love. What can be gather'd from a Man so various? He may, in the Disorder of his Soul, Wed her, he hates; and punish her, he loves.

Orest. But, tell me, how the wrong'd Hermione Brooks her slow Nuptials, and dishonour'd Charms?

Pyl. Hermione would fain be thought to scorn Her wavering Lover, and disdain his Falshood; But, spight of all her Pride, and conscious Beauty, She mourns in Secret her neglected Charms; And oft has made me privy to her Tears: Still threatens to be gone; yet still she stays; And sometimes sighs, and wishes for Orestes.

Orest. Ah, were those Wishes from her Heart, my Friend, I'd fly in Transport——

Pyl. Hear!——The King approaches To give you Audience. Speak your Embassy

Without Reserve: Urge the Demands of Greece; And in the Name of all her Kings require, That Hectors Son be given into your Hands. Pyrrhus, instead of granting what they ask, To speed his Love, and win the Trojan Dame, Will make it Merit to preserve her Son. But, see; he comes!

Orest. Mean while, my Pylades, Go, and dispose Hermione to see Her Lover, who is come thus far, to throw Himself in all his Sorrows at her Feet.

Act I, Scene II.

SCENE II.

Orestes, Pyrrhus, and Phoenix.

Orest. Before I speak the Message of the Greeks, Permit me, Sir, to glory in the Title Of their Ambassador; since I behold Troys Vanquisher, and Great Achilles Son. Nor does the Son rise short of such a Father: If Hector fell by him, Troy fell by you. But, what your Father never would have done, You do. You cherish the Remains of Troy, And, by an ill-timed Pity, keep alive The dying Embers of a Ten-years War. Have you so soon forgot the mighty Hector? The Greeks remember his high-brandish'd Sword, That fill'd their States with Widows and with Orphans; For which they call for Vengeance on his Son. Who knows what he may one Day prove? Who knows But he may brave us in our Ports; and, fill'd With Hectors Fury, set our Fleets on blaze? You may, your self, live to repent your Mercy, Comply, then, with the Grecians just Demands: Satiate their Vengeance, and preserve your self.

Pyr. The Greeks are for my Safety more concern'd Than I desire. I thought your Kings were met On more Important Councils. When I heard The Name of their Ambassador, I hoped Some glorious Enterprize was taking Birth. Is Agamemnons Son dispatch'd for this? And do the Grecian Chiefs, renown'd in War, A Race of Heroes, join in close Debate, To plot an Infant's Death?—What Right has Greece To ask his Life? Must I, must I alone, Of all her scepter'd Warriors, be deny'd To treat my Captive as I please? Know, Prince, When Troy lay smoaking on the Ground, and each Proud Victor shared the Harvest of the War; Andromache and this her Son were mine; Were mine by Lot: And who shall wrest them from me? Ulysses bore away old Priams Queen; Cassandra was your own great Father's Prize: Did I concern my self in what they won? Did I send Embassies to claim their Captives?

Orest. But, Sir, we fear, for you and for our selves, Troy may again revive, and a new Hector Rife in Astyanax. Then think betimes——

Pyr. Let dastard Souls be timorously wise: But tell them, Pyrrhus knows not how to form Far-fancy'd Ills, and Dangers out of sight.

Orest. Sir, call to mind the unrivall'd Strength of Troy; Her Walls, her Bulwarks, and her Gates of Brass; Her Kings, her Heroes, and embattel'd Armies!

Pyr. I call them all to mind; and see them all Confus'd in Dust; all mixt in one wide Ruin; All but a Child, and he in Bondage held. What Vengeance can we fear from such a Troy? If they have sworn to extinguish Hectors Race, Why was their Vow for twelve long Months deferr'd? Why was he not in Priams Bosom slain? He should have fallen among the slaughter'd Heaps,

Whelm'd under Troy. His Death had then been just, When Age and Infancy, alike in vain, Pleaded their Weakness; when the Heat of Conquest, And Horrours of the Sight, rouz'd all our Rage, And blindly hurry'd us through Scenes of Death. My Fury then was without Bounds: But now, My Wrath appeas'd, must I be cruel still? And, deaf to all the tender Calls of Pity, Like a cool Murderer, bath my Hands in Blood? An Infant's Blood?——No, Prince——Go, bid the Greeks Mark out some other Victim; my Revenge Has had its Fill. What has escaped from Troy Shall not be saved to perish in Epirus.

Orest. I need not tell you, Sir, Astyanax Was doom'd to death in Troy; nor how The crafty Mother saved her darling Son. The Greeks do now but urge their former Sentence: Nor is't the Boy, but Hector they pursue; The Father draws their Vengeance on the Son: The Father, who so oft in Grecian Blood Has drench'd his Sword: The Father, whom the Greeks May seek even here.——Prevent them, Sir, in time.

Pyr. No! let them come; since I was born to wage Eternal Wars. Let them now turn their Arms On him, who conquer'd for them: Let them come, And in Epirus seek another Troy. 'Twas thus they recompens'd my God-like Sire; Thus was Achilles thank'd: But, Prince, remember, Their black Ingratitude then cost them dear.

Orest. Shall Greece then find a Rebel Son in Pyrrhus?

Pyr. Have I then conquer'd to depend on Greece?

Orest. Hermione will sway your Soul to Peace, And mediate 'twixt her Father and your self: Her Beauty will enforce my Embassie.

Pyr. Hermione may have her Charms; and I May love her still, tho' not her Father's Slave. I may in time give Proofs, that I am a Lover;

But never must forget, that I am a King. Mean while, Sir, you may see fair Helens Daughter: I know how near in Blood you stand ally'd. That done, you have my Answer, Prince. The Greeks No doubt expect your quick Return.

Act I, Scene III.

SCENE III.

<>Pyrrhus and Phœnix.

Phœn. Sir, do you send your Rival to the Princess?

Pyr. I am told, that he has lov'd her long.

Phœn. If so, Have you not cause to fear the smother'd Flame May kindle at her Sight, and blaze anew? And she be wrought to listen to his Passion?

Pyr. Ah, let them, Phœnix; let them love their Fill! Let them go hence; let them depart together; Together let them fail for Sparta: All my Ports Are open to them both. From what Constraint, What irksome Thoughts should I be then reliev'd!

Phœn. But, Sir——

Pyr. I shall another time, good Phœnix, Unbosom to thee all my Thoughts.—For, see, Andromache appears.

Act I, Scene IV.

SCENE IV.

<>Pyrrhus, Andromache, and Cephisa.

Pyr. May I, Madam, Flatter my Hopes so far, as to believe You come to seek me here?

Andr. This Way, Sir, leads To those Apartments, where you guard my Son. Since you permit me, once a Day, to visit All I have left of Hector and of Troy; I go to weep a few sad Moments with him. I have not yet, to Day, embraced my Child; I have not held him in my widow'd Arms.

Pyr. Ah, Madam! should the Threats of Greece prevail, You'll have Occasion for your Tears, indeed!

Andr. Alas! what Threats? What can alarm the Greeks? There are no Trojans left!

Pyr. Their Hate to Hector Can never die: The Terrour of his Name Still shakes their Souls; and makes them dread his Son.

Andr. A mighty Honour for victorious Greece To fear an Infant; a poor, friendless Child! Who smiles in Bondage; nor yet knows himself The Son of Hector, and the Slave of Pyrrhus.

Pyr. Weak as he is, the Greeks demand his Life; And send no less than Agamemnons Son, To fetch him hence.

Andr. And, Sir, do you comply With such Demands!—This Blow is aim'd at me: How should the Child avenge his slaughter'd Sire? But, cruel Men! they will not have him live To chear my heavy Heart, and ease my Bonds. I promis'd to my self in him a Son, In him a Friend, a Husband, and a Father. But I must suffer Sorrow heap'd on Sorrow; And still the fatal Stroke must come from you.

Pyr. Dry up those Tears: I must not see you weep: And know, I have rejected their Demands. The Greeks already threaten me with War: But, should they arm, as once they did for Helen, And hide the Adriatick with their Fleets; Should they prepare a second ten Years Siege, And lay my Towers and Palaces in Dust: I am determin'd to defend your Son; And rather die my self, than give him up. But, Madam, in the midst of all these Dangers, Will you refuse me a propitious Smile? Hated of Greece, and prest on every side, Let me not, Madam, while I fight your Cause, Let me not combat with your Cruelties; And count Andromache amongst my Foes.

Andr. Consider, Sir, how this will sound in Greece! How can so great a Soul betray such Weakness? Let not Men say, so generous a Design Was but the Transport of a Heart in Love.

Pyr. Your Charms will justifie me to the World.

Andr. How can Andromache, a Captive Queen, O'er-whelm'd with Grief, a Burden to herself, Harbour a Thought of Love? Alas! what Charms Have these unhappy Eyes, by you condemn'd To weep for ever?——Talk of it no more.—— To reverence the Misfortunes of a Foe; To succour the Distrest; to give the Son To an afflicted Mother; to repel Confederate Nations, leagued against his Life; Unbrib'd by Love, unterrify'd by Threats, To pity, to protect him: These are Cares, These are Exploits worthy Achilles Son.

Pyr. Will your Resentments, then, endure for ever? Must Pyrrhus never be forgiven?——'Tis true, My Sword has often reek'd in Phrygian Blood, And carry'd Havock through your Royal Kindred: But you, fair Princess, amply have avenged Old Priams vanquish'd House: And all the Woes, I brought on them, fall short of what I suffer. We both have suffer'd in our Turns: And now Our common Foes should teach us to unite.

Andr. Where does the Captive not behold a Foe?

Pyr. Forget the Term of Hatred; and behold A Friend in Pyrrhus! Give me but to hope, I'll free your Son; I'll be a Father to him: My self will teach him to avenge the Trojans. I'll go in Person to chastise the Greeks, Both for your Wrongs and mine. Inspir'd by you, What wou'd I not atchieve? Again shall Troy Rise from its Ashes: This right Arm shall fix Her Seat of Empire; and your Son shall reign.

Andr. Such Deams of Greatness suit not my Condition: His Hopes of Empire perish'd with his Father. No; thou imperial City, ancient Troy, Thou Pride of Asia, founded by the Gods; Never, oh never! must we hope to see Those Bulwarks rise, which Hector could not guard!—— Sir, all I wish for, is some quiet Exile; Where far from Greece remov'd, and far from you, I may conceal my Son, and mourn my Husband. Your Love creates me Envy. Oh, return! Return to your betroth'd Hermione.

Pyr. Why do you mock me thus? you know, I cannot. You know my Heart is yours: My Soul hangs on you: You take up every Wish: My waking Thoughts, And nightly Dreams are all employ'd on you. 'Tis true, Hermione was sent to share My Throne and Bed; and would with Transport hear The Vows, which you neglect.

Andr. She has no Troy, No Hector to lament: She has not lost A Husband by your Conquests: Such a Husband! (Tormenting Thought!) whose Death alone has made Your Sire immortal: Pyrrhus and Achilles Are both grown great by my Calamities.

Pyr. Madam, 'tis well! 'Tis very well! I find, Your Will must be obey'd: Imperious Captive, It shall. Henceforth I blot you from my Mind: You teach me to forget your Charms; to hate you. For, know, inhuman Beauty, I have loved Too well to treat you with Indifference. Think well upon it: My disorder'd Soul Wavers between th'Extremes of Love and Rage. I've been too tame! I will awake to Vengeance! The Son shall answer for the Mother's Scorn. The Greeks demand him: Nor will I endanger My Realms, to pleasure an ungrateful Woman.

Andr. Then he must die! alas, my Son must die! He has no Friend, no Succour left, besides His Mother's Tears, and his own Innocence.

Pyr. Go, Madam; visit this unhappy Son. The Sight of him may bend your stubborn Heart, And turn to Softness your unjust Disdain. I shall once more expect your Answer. Go; And think, while you embrace the Captive Boy, Think, that his Life depends on your Resolves.

Act I, Scene V.

SCENE V.

Andromache and Cephisa.

Andr. I'll go; and, in the Anguish of my Heart, Weep o'er my Child——If he must dye, my Life Is wrapt in his; I shall not long survive. 'Tis for his Sake, that I have suffer'd Life; Groan'd in Captivity; and out-liv'd Hector. Yes, my Astyanax; we'll go together! Together to the Realms of Night we'll go! >>> There to thy ravish'd Eyes thy Sire I'll show, And point him out among the Shades below.

Act II, Scene I.

Andr. Then he must die! alas, my Son must die! He has no Friend, no Succour left, besides His Mother's Tears, and his own Innocence.

Pyr. Go, Madam; visit this unhappy Son. The Sight of him may bend your stubborn Heart, And turn to Softness your unjust Disdain. I shall once more expect your Answer. Go; And think, while you embrace the Captive Boy, Think, that his Life depends on your Resolves.

SCENE V.

Andromache and Cephisa.

Andr. I'll go; and, in the Anguish of my Heart, Weep o'er my Child——If he must dye, my Life Is wrapt in his; I shall not long survive. 'Tis for his Sake, that I have suffer'd Life; Groan'd in Captivity; and out-liv'd Hector. Yes, my Astyanax; we'll go together! Together to the Realms of Night we'll go! >>> There to thy ravish'd Eyes thy Sire I'll show, And point him out among the Shades below.

ACT II. SCENE I.

Hermione and Cleone.

Well, I'll be rul'd, Cleone: I will see him; I have told Pylades that he may bring him. But. trust me, were I left to my own Thoughts, I should forbid him yet.

Cle. And why forbid him? Is he not, Madam, still the same Orestes? Orestes, whose Return you oft have wish'd? The Man, whose Sufferings you so oft lamented, And often prais'd his Constancy and Love?

Her. That Love, that Constancy, so ill requited, Upbraids me to my self! I blush to think, How I have us'd him; and would shun his Presence. What will be my Confusion, when he sees me Neglected, and forsaken, like himself? Will he not say, Is this the scornful Maid, The proud Hermione, that tyranniz'd In Spartas Court? and triumph'd in her Charms? Her Insolence at last is well repaid. I cannot bear the Thought.

Cle. You wrong your self With unbecoming Fears. He knows too well Your Beauty and your Worth. Your Lover comes not To offer Insults; but repeat his Vows, And breathe his ardent Passion at your Feet. But, Madam, what's your Royal Father's Will? What Orders do your Letters bring from Sparta?

Her. His Orders are, if Pyrrhus still delay The Nuptials, and refuse to Sacrifice

This Trojan Boy; I should with speed embark, And with their Embassy return to Greece.

Cle. What would you more? Orestes comes in time To save your Honour. Pyrrhus cools apace: Prevent his Falshood; and forsake him first. I know you hate him: You have told me so.

Her. Hate him? My injur'd Honour bids me hate him: The ungrateful Man! to whom I fondly gave My Virgin Heart; the Man I loved so dearly; The Man, I doated on! Oh, my Cleone! How is it possible I should not hate him?

Cle. Then give him over, Madam. Quit his Court; And with Orestes——

Her. No! I must have time To work up all my Rage! To meditate A Parting, full of Horrour! My Revenge Will be but too much quicken'd by the Traitour.

Cle. Do you then wait new Insults? New Affronts? To draw you from your Father! Then to leave you! In his own Court to leave you,——for a Captive! If Pyrrhus can provoke you, he has done it.