ANDROMACHE.
51
Chorus.
Yea: and for thy son's son he plotteth death.
Peleus.
Lying in wait, or face to face in fight?
Chorus.
With Delphians, in Loxias' holy place. 1065
Peleus.
Ah me! grim peril this! Away with speed
Let one depart unto the Pythian hearth,
And to our friends there tell the deeds here done,
Or ever Achilles' son be slain of foes.
Enter Messenger.
Messenger.
Woe's me, woe's me!
Bearing what tidings of mischance to thee, 1070
Ancient, and all that love my lord, I come!
Peleus.
O my prophetic soul, what ill it bodes!
Messenger.
Thy son's son, ancient Peleus, is no more,
Such dagger-thrusts hath he received of men
Of Delphi, and that stranger of Mycenæ. 1075
Chorus.
Ah, what wilt do, O ancient?—fall not thou!
Uplift thee!
