“Behold a mother’s last dear pledge of wo! Yes, ’tis the last I have to suffer now. Thou, my Polyxena, my ills must crown: Already in thy fate I feel my own. ’Tis thus, lest haply of my numerous seed One should unslaughter’d fall, even thou must bleed: And yet I hoped thy sex had been thy guard: But neither has thy tender sex been spared. The same Achilles, by whose deadly hate Thy brothers fell, urged thy untimely fate! The same Achilles, whose destructive rage Laid waste my realms, has robb’d my childless age. When Paris’ shafts with Phoebus’ certain aid At length had pierced this dreadful chief, I said, ‘Secure of future ills, he can no more:’ But see, he still pursues me as before. With rage rekindled his dead ashes burn; And his yet murdering ghost my wretched home must mourn. This tyrant’s lust of slaughter I have fed With large supplies from my too fruitful bed. Troy’s towers lie waste; and the wide ruin ends The public wo; but me fresh wo attends. Troy still survives to me; to none but me;