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[Enter Andromache, leading the little Astyanax.] Andromache: What do ye here, sad throng of Phrygian dames? Why tear your hair and beat your wretched breasts? Why stream your cheeks with tears? Our ills are light If we endure a grief that tears can soothe. You mourn a Troy whose walls but now have fall'n; Troy fell for me long since, when that dread car Of Peleus' son, urged on at cruel speed, With doleful groanings 'neath his massive weight, Dragged round the walls my Hector's mangled corse. Since then, o'erwhelmed and utterly undone, With stony resignation do I bear Whatever ills may come. But for this child, Long since would I have saved me from the Greeks And followed my dear lord; but thought of him Doth check my purpose and forbid my death. For his dear sake there still remaineth cause To supplicate the gods, an added care. Through him the richest fruit of woe is lost— The fear of naught; and now all hope of rest From further ills is gone, for cruel fate Hath still an entrance to my grieving heart. Most sad his fear, who fears in hopelessness. An Old Man: What sudden cause of fear hath moved thee so? Andromache: Some greater ill from mighty ills doth rise. The fate of fallen Troy is not yet stayed. Old Man: What new disasters can the fates invent? Andromache: The gates of deepest Styx, those darksome realms (Lest fear be wanting to our overthrow), Are opened wide, and forth from lowest Dis The spirit of our buried foeman comes. (May Greeks alone retrace their steps to earth? For death at least doth come to all alike.) That terror doth invade the hearts of all; But what I now relate is mine alone— A terrifying vision of the night. Old Man: What was this vision? Speak, and share thy fears. Andromache: Now kindly night had passed her middle goal,