Page 2806 - Shakespeare - Vol. 2

Enter Cassandra, raving, with her hair about her ears.

CASSANDRA
Cry, Trojans, cry! Lend me ten thousand eyes,
And I will fill them with prophetic tears.

HECTOR
Peace, sister, peace!

CASSANDRA
Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled old, [105]
Soft infancy, that nothing can but cry,

Add to my clamour! Let us pay betimes
A moiety of that mass of moan to come.
Cry, Trojans, cry! Practise your eyes with tears!

Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilium stand; [110]
Our firebrand brother Paris burns us all.
Cry, Trojans, cry! A Helen and a woe!
Cry, cry! Troy burns, or else let Helen go.
Exit.

HECTOR
Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains
Of divination in our sister work [115]
Some touches of remorse? Or is your blood
So madly hot that no discourse of reason,

Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause,
Can qualify the same?

TROILUS
Why, brother Hector,
We may not think the justness of each act [120]
Such and no other than event doth form it,

Nor once deject the courage of our minds,
Because Cassandra’s mad. Her brain-sick raptures
Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel

Which hath our several honours all engaged [125]