Andromache.
And this my birdie, torn from 'neath my wings?
Menelaus.
O nay—I yield him to my daughter's mercy.
Andromache.
Woe! Why not wail for thee straightway, my child?
Menelaus.
Good sooth, but sorry hope remains for him.
Andromache.
O ye in all folk's eyes most loathed of men, 445
Dwellers in Sparta, senates of treachery,
Princes of lies, weavers of webs of guile,
Thoughts crooked, wholesome never, devious all,—
A crime is your supremacy in Greece!
What vileness lives not with you?—swarming murders? 450
Covetousness?—O ye convict of saying
This with the tongue, while still your hearts mean that!
Now ruin seize ye! Yet to me is death
Not grievous as thou think'st. That was my death
When Phrygia's hapless city was destroyed, 455
And my renowned lord, whose spear full oft
Made thee a seaman, dastard, from a landsman.[1]
Thou meet'st a woman, soul-appalling hero,
Now,—and wouldst kill. Slay on!—my tongue shall fawn
