Andromache.

And must my Hector turn aside
To where Achilles bears in pride
His tribute to Patroclus dead?
How teach our sons to hurl the spear,
And the immortal Gods revere
If thou the realms of Orcus tread?

Hector.

Thy tears, my dearest wife, control.
The thirst for battle stirs my soul;
These arms of mine our Troy must save.
The sacred hearth I will defend,
And falling, fall my country's friend,
Then plunge into the Stygian waye.

Andromache.

The well-known clang of arms shall fade,
In idle halls shall lie thy blade,
And Priam's glorious race expire.
To sunless regions must thou go
Where lone Cocytus wails below,
And drown thy love in Lethe's mire.

Hector.

My every thought, my every hope
In Lethe's silent stream may grope,
But Hector's love shall never sink.
The foe is thundering at the gate,
Gird on my sword, thy grief abate,
My love dies not on Lethe's brink.