ATT. My queen, for still I scruple not to use
The same respectful title which I gave you
When we in Ilion dwelt; you and your lord
While he was living, shared my duteous love,
And now I with important tidings fraught
To you am come, trembling indeed lest one
Of our new rulers overhear the tale,
Yet greatly pitying your disastrous fate:
For Menelaus and his daughter form
Dire plots against you; of these foes beware.
AND. O my dear fellow-servant (for thou shar’st
Her bondage who was erst thy queen, but now
Is wretched), ah! what mean they? what fresh schemes
Have they devised to take away my life,
Who am by woes encompassed?
ATT. They intend,
O miserable dame, to kill your son,
Whom privately you from this house conveyed.
AND. Are they informed I sent the child away?
Ah me! who told them? in what utter ruin
Am I involved!
ATT. I know not; but thus much
Of their designs I heard; in quest of him
Is Menelaus from these doors gone forth.
AND. Then am I lost indeed: for, O my child,
These two relentless vultures mean to seize thee,
And take away thy life, while he who bears
A father’s name, at Delphi still remains.
ATT. You had not fared so ill, I am convinced,
If he were present, but now every friend
Deserts you.
AND. Is there not a rumour spread
Of Peleus’ coming?
ATT. He, though he were here,
Is grown too old to aid you.
AND. More than once
I sent to him.
ATT. Suppose you that he heeds
None of your messengers?
AND. What means this question?
Wilt thou accept such office?
ATT. What pretext
To colour my long absence from this house
Shall I allege?
AND. Full many are the schemes
Which thou, who art a woman, can devise.
ATT. ’Twere dangerous; for Hermione is watchful.
AND. Dost thou perceive the danger, and renounce
Thy friends in their distress?
ATT. Not thus: forbear
To brand me with so infamous a charge:
I go; for of small value is the life
(Whate’er befall me) of a female slave.
[_Exit_ ATTENDANT.
AND. Proceed: meanwhile I to the conscious air
Those plaints and bitter wailings will repeat,
On which I ever dwell. Unhappy women
Find comfort in perpetually talking
Of what they suffer. But my groans arise
Not from one ill, but many ills: the walls
Of my loved country razed, my Hector slain,
And that hard fortune, in whose yoke bound fast,
Thus am I fallen into th’ unseemly state
Of servitude. We never ought to call
Frail mortals happy, at their latest hour
Till we behold them to the shades descend.