ANDROMACHE

ANDROMACHE. Wilt thou, Hector, leave me?—leave me weeping, Where Achilles' murderous blade is heaping Bloody offerings on Patroclus' grave? Who, alas, will teach thine infant truly Spears to hurl, the gods to honor duly, When thou'rt buried 'neath dark Xanthus' wave?

HECTOR. Dearest wife, go,—fetch my death-spear glancing, Let me join the battle-dance entrancing, For my shoulders bear the weight of Troy! Heaven will be our Astyanax' protector! Falling as his country's savior, Hector Soon will greet thee in the realms of joy.