CHOR. Seest thou, Andromache, O queen, this way
Advancing, wafted in a foreign car?
Eager to cling to the maternal breast
Close follows her beloved Astyanax,
The son of Hector.
HEC. Whither art thou borne,
O wretched woman, on a chariot placed
’Midst Hector’s brazen armour, and those spoils
From captive Phrygian chiefs in combat torn,
With which Achilles’ son from Ilion’s siege
Triumphant, will the Phthian temples grace?
AND. Our Grecian masters drag me hence.
HEC. Alas!
AND. Why with your groans my anguish strive t’ assuage?
HEC. Oh!