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END, rend thy hair, Cassandra: he will go.

Yea, rend thy garments, wring thy hands, and cry

From Troy still towered to the unreddened sky.

See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe:—

He most whom that fair woman arms, with show

Of wrath on her bent brows; for in this place

This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face

The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know.

What eyes, what ears hath sweet Andromache,

Save for her Hector's form and step; as tear

On tear make salt the warm last kiss he gave? He goes. Cassandra's words beat heavily

Like crows above his crest, and at his ear

Ring hollow in the shield that shall not save.