He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay,
Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,
Look, how thou diest! look, how thy eye turns pale!
Look, how thy wounds do bleed at many vents!
Hark, how Troy roars! how Hecuba cries out!
How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth!
Behold, distraction, frenzy and amazement,
Like witless antics, one another meet,
And all cry, Hector! Hector’s dead! O Hector!
troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl;
and what one thing, what another, that I shall
leave you one o’ these days: and I have a rheum
in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones
that, unless a man were cursed, I cannot tell what
to think on’t. What says she there?