ACT V. SCENE I.

HECTOR, _Trojans,_ ANDROMACHE.

_Hect._ The blue mists rise from off the nether grounds,
And the sun mounts apace. To arms, to arms!
I am resolved to put to the utmost proof
The fate of Troy this day.

_Andr._ [_Aside._] Oh wretched woman, oh!

_Hect._ Methought I heard you sigh, Andromache.

_Andr._ Did you, my lord?

_Hect._ Did you, my lord? you answer indirectly;
Just when I said, that I would put our fate
Upon the extremest proof, you fetched a groan;
And, as you checked yourself for what you did,
You stifled it and stopt. Come, you are sad.

_Andr._ The gods forbid!

_Hect._ What should the gods forbid?

_Andr._ That I should give you cause of just offence.

_Hect._ You say well; but you look not chearfully.
I mean this day to waste the stock of war,
And lay it prodigally out in blows.
Come, gird my sword, and smile upon me, love;
Like victory, come flying to my arms,
And give me earnest of desired success.

_Andr._ The gods protect you, and restore you to me!

_Hect._ What, grown a coward! Thou wert used, Andromache,
To give my courage courage; thou would'st cry,--
Go Hector, day grows old, and part of fame
Is ravished from thee by thy slothful stay.

_Andr._ [_Aside._]
What shall I do to seem the same I was?--
Come, let me gird thy fortune to thy side,
And conquest sit as close and sure as this.
[_She goes to gird his sword, and it falls._
Now mercy, heaven! the gods avert this omen!

_Hect._ A foolish omen! take it up again,
And mend thy error.

_Andr._ I cannot, for my hand obeys me not;
But, as in slumbers, when we fain would run
From our imagined fears, our idle feet
Grow to the ground, our struggling voice dies inward;
So now, when I would force myself to chear you,
My faltering tongue can give no glad presage:
Alas, I am no more Andromache.

_Hect._ Why then thy former soul is flown to me;
For I, methinks, am lifted into air,
As if my mind, mastering my mortal part,
Would bear my exalted body to the gods.
Last night I dreamt Jove sat on Ida's top,
And, beckoning with his hand divine from far,
He pointed to a choir of demi-gods,
Bacchus and Hercules, and all the rest,
Who, free from human toils, had gained the pitch
Of blest eternity;--Lo there, he said,
Lo there's a place for Hector.

_Andr._ Be to thy enemies this boding dream!

_Hect._ Why, it portends me honour and renown.

_Andr._ Such honour as the brave gain after