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Title: Phaedra

Author: Jean Baptiste Racine

Translator: Robert Bruce Boswell

Release Date: October 30, 2008 [EBook #1977]
Last Updated: February 7, 2013

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII


Produced by Dagny, John Bickers, and David Widger


By Jean Baptiste Racine

Translated by Robert Bruce Boswell










JEAN BAPTISTE RACINE, the younger contemporary of Corneille, and his rival for supremacy in French classical tragedy, was born at Ferte-Milon, December 21, 1639. He was educated at the College of Beauvais, at the great Jansenist school at Port Royal, and at the College d'Harcourt. He attracted notice by an ode written for the marriage of Louis XIV in 1660, and made his first really great dramatic success with his "Andromaque." His tragic masterpieces include "Britannicus," "Berenice," "Bajazet," "Mithridate," "Iphigenie," and "Phaedre," all written between 1669 and 1677. Then for some years he gave up dramatic composition, disgusted by the intrigues of enemies who sought to injure his career by exalting above him an unworthy rival. In 1689 he resumed his work under the persuasion of Mme. de Maintenon, and produced "Esther" and "Athalie," the latter ranking among his finest productions, although it did not receive public recognition until some time after his death in 1699. Besides his tragedies, Racine wrote one comedy, "Les Plaideurs," four hymns of great beauty, and a history of Port Royal.

The external conventions of classical tragedy which had been established by Corneille, Racine did not attempt to modify. His study of the Greek tragedians and his own taste led him to submit willingly to the rigor and simplicity of form which were the fundamental marks of the classical ideal. It was in his treatment of character that he differed most from his predecessor; for whereas, as we have seen, Corneille represented his leading figures as heroically subduing passion by force of will, Racine represents his as driven by almost uncontrollable passion. Thus his creations appeal to the modern reader as more warmly human; their speech, if less exalted, is simpler and more natural; and he succeeds more brilliantly with his portraits of women than with those of men.

All these characteristics are exemplified in "Phaedre," the tragedy of Racine which has made an appeal to the widest audience. To the legend as treated by Euripides, Racine added the love of Hippolytus for Aricia, and thus supplied a motive for Phaedra's jealousy, and at the same time he made the nurse instead of Phaedra the calumniator of his son to Theseus.



     THESEUS, son of Aegeus and King of Athens.
     PHAEDRA, wife of Theseus and Daughter of Minos and Pasiphae.
     HIPPOLYTUS, son of Theseus and Antiope, Queen of the Amazons.
     ARICIA, Princess of the Blood Royal of Athens.
     OENONE, nurse of Phaedra.
     THERAMENES, tutor of Hippolytus.
     ISMENE, bosom friend of Aricia.
     PANOPE, waiting-woman of Phaedra.

The scene is laid at Troezen, a town of the Peloponnesus.


          SCENE I
          My mind is settled, dear Theramenes,
          And I can stay no more in lovely Troezen.
          In doubt that racks my soul with mortal anguish,
          I grow ashamed of such long idleness.
          Six months and more my father has been gone,
          And what may have befallen one so dear
          I know not, nor what corner of the earth
          Hides him.

          And where, prince, will you look for him?
          Already, to content your just alarm,
          Have I not cross'd the seas on either side
          Of Corinth, ask'd if aught were known of Theseus
          Where Acheron is lost among the Shades,
          Visited Elis, doubled Toenarus,
          And sail'd into the sea that saw the fall
          Of Icarus? Inspired with what new hope,
          Under what favour'd skies think you to trace
          His footsteps? Who knows if the King, your father,
          Wishes the secret of his absence known?
          Perchance, while we are trembling for his life,
          The hero calmly plots some fresh intrigue,
          And only waits till the deluded fair—

          Cease, dear Theramenes, respect the name
          Of Theseus. Youthful errors have been left
          Behind, and no unworthy obstacle
          Detains him. Phaedra long has fix'd a heart
          Inconstant once, nor need she fear a rival.
          In seeking him I shall but do my duty,
          And leave a place I dare no longer see.

          Indeed! When, prince, did you begin to dread
          These peaceful haunts, so dear to happy childhood,
          Where I have seen you oft prefer to stay,
          Rather than meet the tumult and the pomp
          Of Athens and the court? What danger shun you,
          Or shall I say what grief?

          That happy time
          Is gone, and all is changed, since to these shores
          The gods sent Phaedra.

          I perceive the cause
          Of your distress. It is the queen whose sight
          Offends you. With a step-dame's spite she schemed
          Your exile soon as she set eyes on you.
          But if her hatred is not wholly vanish'd,
          It has at least taken a milder aspect.
          Besides, what danger can a dying woman,
          One too who longs for death, bring on your head?
          Can Phaedra, sick'ning of a dire disease
          Of which she will not speak, weary of life
          And of herself, form any plots against you?

          It is not her vain enmity I fear,
          Another foe alarms Hippolytus.
          I fly, it must be own'd, from young Aricia,
          The sole survivor of an impious race.

          What! You become her persecutor too!
          The gentle sister of the cruel sons
          Of Pallas shared not in their perfidy;
          Why should you hate such charming innocence?

          I should not need to fly, if it were hatred.

          May I, then, learn the meaning of your flight?
          Is this the proud Hippolytus I see,
          Than whom there breathed no fiercer foe to love
          And to that yoke which Theseus has so oft
          Endured? And can it be that Venus, scorn'd
          So long, will justify your sire at last?
          Has she, then, setting you with other mortals,
          Forced e'en Hippolytus to offer incense
          Before her? Can you love?

          Friend, ask me not.
          You, who have known my heart from infancy
          And all its feelings of disdainful pride,
          Spare me the shame of disavowing all
          That I profess'd. Born of an Amazon,
          The wildness that you wonder at I suck'd
          With mother's milk. When come to riper age,
          Reason approved what Nature had implanted.
          Sincerely bound to me by zealous service,
          You told me then the story of my sire,
          And know how oft, attentive to your voice,
          I kindled when I heard his noble acts,
          As you described him bringing consolation
          To mortals for the absence of Alcides,
          The highways clear'd of monsters and of robbers,
          Procrustes, Cercyon, Sciro, Sinnis slain,
          The Epidaurian giant's bones dispersed,
          Crete reeking with the blood of Minotaur.
          But when you told me of less glorious deeds,
          Troth plighted here and there and everywhere,
          Young Helen stolen from her home at Sparta,
          And Periboea's tears in Salamis,
          With many another trusting heart deceived
          Whose very names have 'scaped his memory,
          Forsaken Ariadne to the rocks
          Complaining, last this Phaedra, bound to him
          By better ties,—you know with what regret
          I heard and urged you to cut short the tale,
          Happy had I been able to erase
          From my remembrance that unworthy part
          Of such a splendid record. I, in turn,
          Am I too made the slave of love, and brought
          To stoop so low? The more contemptible
          That no renown is mine such as exalts
          The name of Theseus, that no monsters quell'd
          Have given me a right to share his weakness.
          And if my pride of heart must needs be humbled,
          Aricia should have been the last to tame it.
          Was I beside myself to have forgotten
          Eternal barriers of separation
          Between us? By my father's stern command
          Her brethren's blood must ne'er be reinforced
          By sons of hers; he dreads a single shoot
          From stock so guilty, and would fain with her
          Bury their name, that, even to the tomb
          Content to be his ward, for her no torch
          Of Hymen may be lit. Shall I espouse
          Her rights against my sire, rashly provoke
          His wrath, and launch upon a mad career—

          The gods, dear prince, if once your hour is come,
          Care little for the reasons that should guide us.
          Wishing to shut your eyes, Theseus unseals them;
          His hatred, stirring a rebellious flame
          Within you, lends his enemy new charms.
          And, after all, why should a guiltless passion
          Alarm you? Dare you not essay its sweetness,
          But follow rather a fastidious scruple?
          Fear you to stray where Hercules has wander'd?
          What heart so stout that Venus has not vanquish'd?
          Where would you be yourself, so long her foe,
          Had your own mother, constant in her scorn
          Of love, ne'er glowed with tenderness for Theseus?
          What boots it to affect a pride you feel not?
          Confess it, all is changed; for some time past
          You have been seldom seen with wild delight
          Urging the rapid car along the strand,
          Or, skilful in the art that Neptune taught,
          Making th' unbroken steed obey the bit;
          Less often have the woods return'd our shouts;
          A secret burden on your spirits cast
          Has dimm'd your eye. How can I doubt you love?
          Vainly would you conceal the fatal wound.
          Has not the fair Aricia touch'd your heart?

          Theramenes, I go to find my father.

          Will you not see the queen before you start,
          My prince?

          That is my purpose: you can tell her.
          Yes, I will see her; duty bids me do it.
          But what new ill vexes her dear Oenone?
          SCENE II
          Alas, my lord, what grief was e'er like mine?
          The queen has almost touch'd the gates of death.
          Vainly close watch I keep by day and night,
          E'en in my arms a secret malady
          Slays her, and all her senses are disorder'd.
          Weary yet restless from her couch she rises,
          Pants for the outer air, but bids me see
          That no one on her misery intrudes.
          She comes.

          Enough. She shall not be disturb'd,
          Nor be confronted with a face she hates.
          SCENE III
          We have gone far enough. Stay, dear Oenone;
          Strength fails me, and I needs must rest awhile.
          My eyes are dazzled with this glaring light
          So long unseen, my trembling knees refuse
          Support. Ah me!

          Would Heaven that our tears
          Might bring relief!

          Ah, how these cumbrous gauds,
          These veils oppress me! What officious hand
          Has tied these knots, and gather'd o'er my brow
          These clustering coils? How all conspires to add
          To my distress!

          What is one moment wish'd,
          The next, is irksome. Did you not just now,
          Sick of inaction, bid us deck you out,
          And, with your former energy recall'd,
          Desire to go abroad, and see the light
          Of day once more? You see it, and would fain
          Be hidden from the sunshine that you sought.

          Thou glorious author of a hapless race,
          Whose daughter 'twas my mother's boast to be,
          Who well may'st blush to see me in such plight,
          For the last time I come to look on thee,
          O Sun!

          What! Still are you in love with death?
          Shall I ne'er see you, reconciled to life,
          Forego these cruel accents of despair?

          Would I were seated in the forest's shade!
          When may I follow with delighted eye,
          Thro' glorious dust flying in full career,
          A chariot—


          Have I lost my senses?
          What said I? and where am I? Whither stray
          Vain wishes? Ah! The gods have made me mad.
          I blush, Oenone, and confusion covers
          My face, for I have let you see too clearly
          The shame of grief that, in my own despite,
          O'erflows these eyes of mine.

          If you must blush,
          Blush at a silence that inflames your woes.
          Resisting all my care, deaf to my voice,
          Will you have no compassion on yourself,
          But let your life be ended in mid course?
          What evil spell has drain'd its fountain dry?
          Thrice have the shades of night obscured the heav'ns
          Since sleep has enter'd thro' your eyes, and thrice
          The dawn has chased the darkness thence, since food
          Pass'd your wan lips, and you are faint and languid.
          To what dread purpose is your heart inclined?
          How dare you make attempts upon your life,
          And so offend the gods who gave it you,
          Prove false to Theseus and your marriage vows,
          Ay, and betray your most unhappy children,
          Bending their necks yourself beneath the yoke?
          That day, be sure, which robs them of their mother,
          Will give high hopes back to the stranger's son,
          To that proud enemy of you and yours,
          To whom an Amazon gave birth, I mean

          Ye gods!

          Ah, this reproach
          Moves you!

          Unhappy woman, to what name
          Gave your mouth utterance?

          Your wrath is just.
          'Tis well that that ill-omen'd name can rouse
          Such rage. Then live. Let love and duty urge
          Their claims. Live, suffer not this son of Scythia,
          Crushing your children 'neath his odious sway,
          To rule the noble offspring of the gods,
          The purest blood of Greece. Make no delay;
          Each moment threatens death; quickly restore
          Your shatter'd strength, while yet the torch of life
          Holds out, and can be fann'd into a flame.

          Too long have I endured its guilt and shame!

          Why? What remorse gnaws at your heart? What crime
          Can have disturb'd you thus? Your hands are not
          Polluted with the blood of innocence?

          Thanks be to Heav'n, my hands are free from stain.
          Would that my soul were innocent as they!

          What awful project have you then conceived,
          Whereat your conscience should be still alarm'd?

          Have I not said enough? Spare me the rest.
          I die to save myself a full confession.

          Die then, and keep a silence so inhuman;
          But seek some other hand to close your eyes.
          Tho' but a spark of life remains within you,
          My soul shall go before you to the Shades.
          A thousand roads are always open thither;
          Pain'd at your want of confidence, I'll choose
          The shortest. Cruel one, when has my faith
          Deceived you! Think how in my arms you lay
          New born. For you, my country and my children
          I have forsaken. Do you thus repay
          My faithful service?

          What do you expect
          From words so bitter? Were I to break silence
          Horror would freeze your blood.

          What can you say
          To horrify me more than to behold
          You die before my eyes?

          When you shall know
          My crime, my death will follow none the less,
          But with the added stain of guilt.

          Dear Madam,
          By all the tears that I have shed for you,
          By these weak knees I clasp, relieve my mind
          From torturing doubt.

          It is your wish. Then rise.

          I hear you. Speak.

          Heav'ns! How shall I begin?

          Dismiss vain fears, you wound me with distrust.

          O fatal animosity of Venus!
          Into what wild distractions did she cast
          My mother!

          Be they blotted from remembrance,
          And for all time to come buried in silence.

          My sister Ariadne, by what love
          Were you betray'd to death, on lonely shores

          Madam, what deep-seated pain
          Prompts these reproaches against all your kin?

          It is the will of Venus, and I perish,
          Last, most unhappy of a family
          Where all were wretched.

          Do you love?

          I feel
          All its mad fever.

          Ah! For whom?

          Hear now
          The crowning horror. Yes, I love—my lips
          Tremble to say his name.


          Know you him,
          Son of the Amazon, whom I've oppress'd
          So long?

          Hippolytus? Great gods!

          'Tis you
          Have named him.

          All my blood within my veins
          Seems frozen. O despair! O cursed race!
          Ill-omen'd journey! Land of misery!
          Why did we ever reach thy dangerous shores?

          My wound is not so recent. Scarcely had I
          Been bound to Theseus by the marriage yoke,
          And happiness and peace seem'd well secured,
          When Athens show'd me my proud enemy.
          I look'd, alternately turn'd pale and blush'd
          To see him, and my soul grew all distraught;
          A mist obscured my vision, and my voice
          Falter'd, my blood ran cold, then burn'd like fire;
          Venus I felt in all my fever'd frame,
          Whose fury had so many of my race
          Pursued. With fervent vows I sought to shun
          Her torments, built and deck'd for her a shrine,
          And there, 'mid countless victims did I seek
          The reason I had lost; but all for naught,
          No remedy could cure the wounds of love!
          In vain I offer'd incense on her altars;
          When I invoked her name my heart adored
          Hippolytus, before me constantly;
          And when I made her altars smoke with victims,
          'Twas for a god whose name I dared not utter.
          I fled his presence everywhere, but found him—
          O crowning horror!—in his father's features.
          Against myself, at last, I raised revolt,
          And stirr'd my courage up to persecute
          The enemy I loved. To banish him
          I wore a step—dame's harsh and jealous carriage,
          With ceaseless cries I clamour'd for his exile,
          Till I had torn him from his father's arms.
          I breathed once more, Oenone; in his absence
          My days flow'd on less troubled than before,
          And innocent. Submissive to my husband,
          I hid my grief, and of our fatal marriage
          Cherish'd the fruits. Vain caution! Cruel Fate!
          Brought hither by my spouse himself, I saw
          Again the enemy whom I had banish'd,
          And the old wound too quickly bled afresh.
          No longer is it love hid in my heart,
          But Venus in her might seizing her prey.
          I have conceived just terror for my crime;
          I hate my life, and hold my love in horror.
          Dying I wish'd to keep my fame unsullied,
          And bury in the grave a guilty passion;
          But I have been unable to withstand
          Tears and entreaties, I have told you all;
          Content, if only, as my end draws near,
          You do not vex me with unjust reproaches,
          Nor with vain efforts seek to snatch from death
          The last faint lingering sparks of vital breath.
          SCENE IV
          Fain would I hide from you tidings so sad,
          But 'tis my duty, Madam, to reveal them.
          The hand of death has seized your peerless husband,
          And you are last to hear of this disaster.

          What say you, Panope?

          The queen, deceived
          By a vain trust in Heav'n, begs safe return
          For Theseus, while Hippolytus his son
          Learns of his death from vessels that are now
          In port.

          Ye gods!

          Divided counsels sway
          The choice of Athens; some would have the prince,
          Your child, for master; others, disregarding
          The laws, dare to support the stranger's son.
          'Tis even said that a presumptuous faction
          Would crown Aricia and the house of Pallas.
          I deem'd it right to warn you of this danger.
          Hippolytus already is prepared
          To start, and should he show himself at Athens,
          'Tis to be fear'd the fickle crowd will all
          Follow his lead.

          Enough. The queen, who hears you,
          By no means will neglect this timely warning.
          SCENE V
          Dear lady, I had almost ceased to urge
          The wish that you should live, thinking to follow
          My mistress to the tomb, from which my voice
          Had fail'd to turn you; but this new misfortune
          Alters the aspect of affairs, and prompts
          Fresh measures. Madam, Theseus is no more,
          You must supply his place. He leaves a son,
          A slave, if you should die, but, if you live,
          A King. On whom has he to lean but you?
          No hand but yours will dry his tears. Then live
          For him, or else the tears of innocence
          Will move the gods, his ancestors, to wrath
          Against his mother. Live, your guilt is gone,
          No blame attaches to your passion now.
          The King's decease has freed you from the bonds
          That made the crime and horror of your love.
          Hippolytus no longer need be dreaded,
          Him you may see henceforth without reproach.
          It may be, that, convinced of your aversion,
          He means to head the rebels. Undeceive him,
          Soften his callous heart, and bend his pride.
          King of this fertile land, in Troezen here
          His portion lies; but as he knows, the laws
          Give to your son the ramparts that Minerva
          Built and protects. A common enemy
          Threatens you both, unite them to oppose

          To your counsel I consent.
          Yes, I will live, if life can be restored,
          If my affection for a son has pow'r
          To rouse my sinking heart at such a dangerous hour.


          SCENE I
          ARICIA, ISMENE
          Hippolytus request to see me here!
          Hippolytus desire to bid farewell!
          Is't true, Ismene? Are you not deceived?

          This is the first result of Theseus' death.
          Prepare yourself to see from every side.
          Hearts turn towards you that were kept away
          By Theseus. Mistress of her lot at last,
          Aricia soon shall find all Greece fall low,
          To do her homage.

          'Tis not then, Ismene,
          An idle tale? Am I no more a slave?
          Have I no enemies?

          The gods oppose
          Your peace no longer, and the soul of Theseus
          Is with your brothers.

          Does the voice of fame
          Tell how he died?

          Rumours incredible
          Are spread. Some say that, seizing a new bride,
          The faithless husband by the waves was swallow'd.
          Others affirm, and this report prevails,
          That with Pirithous to the world below
          He went, and saw the shores of dark Cocytus,
          Showing himself alive to the pale ghosts;
          But that he could not leave those gloomy realms,
          Which whoso enters there abides for ever.

          Shall I believe that ere his destined hour
          A mortal may descend into the gulf
          Of Hades? What attraction could o'ercome
          Its terrors?

          He is dead, and you alone
          Doubt it. The men of Athens mourn his loss.
          Troezen already hails Hippolytus
          As King. And Phaedra, fearing for her son,
          Asks counsel of the friends who share her trouble,
          Here in this palace.

          Will Hippolytus,
          Think you, prove kinder than his sire, make light
          My chains, and pity my misfortunes?

          I think so, Madam.

          Ah, you know him not
          Or you would never deem so hard a heart
          Can pity feel, or me alone except
          From the contempt in which he holds our sex.
          Has he not long avoided every spot
          Where we resort?

          I know what tales are told
          Of proud Hippolytus, but I have seen
          Him near you, and have watch'd with curious eye
          How one esteem'd so cold would bear himself.
          Little did his behavior correspond
          With what I look'd for; in his face confusion
          Appear'd at your first glance, he could not turn
          His languid eyes away, but gazed on you.
          Love is a word that may offend his pride,
          But what the tongue disowns, looks can betray.

          How eagerly my heart hears what you say,
          Tho' it may be delusion, dear Ismene!
          Did it seem possible to you, who know me,
          That I, sad sport of a relentless Fate,
          Fed upon bitter tears by night and day,
          Could ever taste the maddening draught of love?
          The last frail offspring of a royal race,
          Children of Earth, I only have survived
          War's fury. Cut off in the flow'r of youth,
          Mown by the sword, six brothers have I lost,
          The hope of an illustrious house, whose blood
          Earth drank with sorrow, near akin to his
          Whom she herself produced. Since then, you know
          How thro' all Greece no heart has been allow'd
          To sigh for me, lest by a sister's flame
          The brothers' ashes be perchance rekindled.
          You know, besides, with what disdain I view'd
          My conqueror's suspicions and precautions,
          And how, oppos'd as I have ever been
          To love, I often thank'd the King's injustice
          Which happily confirm'd my inclination.
          But then I never had beheld his son.
          Not that, attracted merely by the eye, I
          love him for his beauty and his grace,
          Endowments which he owes to Nature's bounty,
          Charms which he seems to know not or to scorn.
          I love and prize in him riches more rare,
          The virtues of his sire, without his faults.
          I love, as I must own, that generous pride
          Which ne'er has stoop'd beneath the amorous yoke.
          Phaedra reaps little glory from a lover
          So lavish of his sighs; I am too proud
          To share devotion with a thousand others,
          Or enter where the door is always open.
          But to make one who ne'er has stoop'd before
          Bend his proud neck, to pierce a heart of stone,
          To bind a captive whom his chains astonish,
          Who vainly 'gainst a pleasing yoke rebels,—
          That piques my ardour, and I long for that.
          'Twas easier to disarm the god of strength
          Than this Hippolytus, for Hercules
          Yielded so often to the eyes of beauty,
          As to make triumph cheap. But, dear Ismene,
          I take too little heed of opposition
          Beyond my pow'r to quell, and you may hear me,
          Humbled by sore defeat, upbraid the pride
          I now admire. What! Can he love? and I
          Have had the happiness to bend—

          He comes
          Yourself shall hear him.
          SCENE II
          Lady, ere I go
          My duty bids me tell you of your change
          Of fortune. My worst fears are realized;
          My sire is dead. Yes, his protracted absence
          Was caused as I foreboded. Death alone,
          Ending his toils, could keep him from the world
          Conceal'd so long. The gods at last have doom'd
          Alcides' friend, companion, and successor.
          I think your hatred, tender to his virtues,
          Can hear such terms of praise without resentment,
          Knowing them due. One hope have I that soothes
          My sorrow: I can free you from restraint.
          Lo, I revoke the laws whose rigour moved
          My pity; you are at your own disposal,
          Both heart and hand; here, in my heritage,
          In Troezen, where my grandsire Pittheus reign'd
          Of yore and I am now acknowledged King,
          I leave you free, free as myself,—and more.

          Your kindness is too great, 'tis overwhelming.
          Such generosity, that pays disgrace
          With honour, lends more force than you can think
          To those harsh laws from which you would release me.

          Athens, uncertain how to fill the throne
          Of Theseus, speaks of you, anon of me,
          And then of Phaedra's son.

          Of me, my lord?

          I know myself excluded by strict law:
          Greece turns to my reproach a foreign mother.
          But if my brother were my only rival,
          My rights prevail o'er his clearly enough
          To make me careless of the law's caprice.
          My forwardness is check'd by juster claims:
          To you I yield my place, or, rather, own
          That it is yours by right, and yours the sceptre,
          As handed down from Earth's great son, Erechtheus.
          Adoption placed it in the hands of Aegeus:
          Athens, by him protected and increased,
          Welcomed a king so generous as my sire,
          And left your hapless brothers in oblivion.
          Now she invites you back within her walls;
          Protracted strife has cost her groans enough,
          Her fields are glutted with your kinsmen's blood
          Fatt'ning the furrows out of which it sprung
          At first. I rule this Troezen; while the son
          Of Phaedra has in Crete a rich domain.
          Athens is yours. I will do all I can
          To join for you the votes divided now
          Between us.

          Stunn'd at all I hear, my lord,
          I fear, I almost fear a dream deceives me.
          Am I indeed awake? Can I believe
          Such generosity? What god has put it
          Into your heart? Well is the fame deserved
          That you enjoy! That fame falls short of truth!
          Would you for me prove traitor to yourself?
          Was it not boon enough never to hate me,
          So long to have abstain'd from harbouring
          The enmity—

          To hate you? I, to hate you?
          However darkly my fierce pride was painted,
          Do you suppose a monster gave me birth?
          What savage temper, what envenom'd hatred
          Would not be mollified at sight of you?
          Could I resist the soul-bewitching charm—

          Why, what is this, Sir?

          I have said too much
          Not to say more. Prudence in vain resists
          The violence of passion. I have broken
          Silence at last, and I must tell you now
          The secret that my heart can hold no longer.
          You see before you an unhappy instance
          Of hasty pride, a prince who claims compassion
          I, who, so long the enemy of Love,
          Mock'd at his fetters and despised his captives,
          Who, pitying poor mortals that were shipwreck'd,
          In seeming safety view'd the storms from land,
          Now find myself to the same fate exposed,
          Toss'd to and fro upon a sea of troubles!
          My boldness has been vanquish'd in a moment,
          And humbled is the pride wherein I boasted.
          For nearly six months past, ashamed, despairing,
          Bearing where'er I go the shaft that rends
          My heart, I struggle vainly to be free
          From you and from myself; I shun you, present;
          Absent, I find you near; I see your form
          In the dark forest depths; the shades of night,
          Nor less broad daylight, bring back to my view
          The charms that I avoid; all things conspire
          To make Hippolytus your slave. For fruit
          Of all my bootless sighs, I fail to find
          My former self. My bow and javelins
          Please me no more, my chariot is forgotten,
          With all the Sea God's lessons; and the woods
          Echo my groans instead of joyous shouts
          Urging my fiery steeds.

          Hearing this tale
          Of passion so uncouth, you blush perchance
          At your own handiwork. With what wild words
          I offer you my heart, strange captive held
          By silken jess! But dearer in your eyes
          Should be the offering, that this language comes
          Strange to my lips; reject not vows express'd
          So ill, which but for you had ne'er been form'd.
          SCENE III
          Prince, the Queen comes. I herald her approach.
          'Tis you she seeks.


          What her thought may be
          I know not. But I speak on her behalf.
          She would converse with you ere you go hence.

          What shall I say to her? Can she expect—

          You cannot, noble Prince, refuse to hear her,
          Howe'er convinced she is your enemy,
          Some shade of pity to her tears is due.

          Shall we part thus? and will you let me go,
          Not knowing if my boldness has offended
          The goddess I adore? Whether this heart,
          Left in your hands—

          Go, Prince, pursue the schemes
          Your generous soul dictates, make Athens own
          My sceptre. All the gifts you offer me
          Will I accept, but this high throne of empire
          Is not the one most precious in my sight.
          SCENE IV
          Friend, is all ready?
          But the Queen approaches.
          Go, see the vessel in fit trim to sail.
          Haste, bid the crew aboard, and hoist the signal:
          Then soon return, and so deliver me
          From interview most irksome.
          SCENE V
          PHAEDRA (to OENONE)
          There I see him!
          My blood forgets to flow, my tongue to speak
          What I am come to say.

          Think of your son,
          How all his hopes depend on you.

          I hear
          You leave us, and in haste. I come to add
          My tears to your distress, and for a son
          Plead my alarm. No more has he a father,
          And at no distant day my son must witness
          My death. Already do a thousand foes
          Threaten his youth. You only can defend him
          But in my secret heart remorse awakes,
          And fear lest I have shut your ears against
          His cries. I tremble lest your righteous anger
          Visit on him ere long the hatred earn'd
          By me, his mother.

          No such base resentment,
          Madam, is mine.

          I could not blame you, Prince,
          If you should hate me. I have injured you:
          So much you know, but could not read my heart.
          T' incur your enmity has been mine aim.
          The self-same borders could not hold us both;
          In public and in private I declared
          Myself your foe, and found no peace till seas
          Parted us from each other. I forbade
          Your very name to be pronounced before me.
          And yet if punishment should be proportion'd
          To the offence, if only hatred draws
          Your hatred, never woman merited
          More pity, less deserved your enmity.

          A mother jealous of her children's rights
          Seldom forgives the offspring of a wife
          Who reign'd before her. Harassing suspicions
          Are common sequels of a second marriage.
          Of me would any other have been jealous
          No less than you, perhaps more violent.

          Ah, Prince, how Heav'n has from the general law
          Made me exempt, be that same Heav'n my witness!
          Far different is the trouble that devours me!

          This is no time for self-reproaches, Madam.
          It may be that your husband still beholds
          The light, and Heav'n may grant him safe return,
          In answer to our prayers. His guardian god
          Is Neptune, ne'er by him invoked in vain.

          He who has seen the mansions of the dead
          Returns not thence. Since to those gloomy shores
          Theseus is gone, 'tis vain to hope that Heav'n
          May send him back. Prince, there is no release
          From Acheron's greedy maw. And yet, methinks,
          He lives, and breathes in you. I see him still
          Before me, and to him I seem to speak;
          My heart—
          Oh! I am mad; do what I will,
          I cannot hide my passion.

          Yes, I see
          The strange effects of love. Theseus, tho' dead,
          Seems present to your eyes, for in your soul
          There burns a constant flame.

          Ah, yes for Theseus
          I languish and I long, not as the Shades
          Have seen him, of a thousand different forms
          The fickle lover, and of Pluto's bride
          The would-be ravisher, but faithful, proud
          E'en to a slight disdain, with youthful charms
          Attracting every heart, as gods are painted,
          Or like yourself. He had your mien, your eyes,
          Spoke and could blush like you, when to the isle
          Of Crete, my childhood's home, he cross'd the waves,
          Worthy to win the love of Minos' daughters.
          What were you doing then? Why did he gather
          The flow'r of Greece, and leave Hippolytus?
          Oh, why were you too young to have embark'd
          On board the ship that brought thy sire to Crete?
          At your hands would the monster then have perish'd,
          Despite the windings of his vast retreat.
          To guide your doubtful steps within the maze
          My sister would have arm'd you with the clue.
          But no, therein would Phaedra have forestall'd her,
          Love would have first inspired me with the thought;
          And I it would have been whose timely aid
          Had taught you all the labyrinth's crooked ways.
          What anxious care a life so dear had cost me!
          No thread had satisfied your lover's fears:
          I would myself have wish'd to lead the way,
          And share the peril you were bound to face;
          Phaedra with you would have explored the maze,
          With you emerged in safety, or have perish'd.

          Gods! What is this I hear? Have you forgotten
          That Theseus is my father and your husband?

          Why should you fancy I have lost remembrance
          Thereof, and am regardless of mine honour?

          Forgive me, Madam. With a blush I own
          That I misconstrued words of innocence.
          For very shame I cannot bear your sight
          Longer. I go—

          Ah! cruel Prince, too well
          You understood me. I have said enough
          To save you from mistake. I love. But think not
          That at the moment when I love you most
          I do not feel my guilt; no weak compliance
          Has fed the poison that infects my brain.
          The ill-starr'd object of celestial vengeance,
          I am not so detestable to you
          As to myself. The gods will bear me witness,
          Who have within my veins kindled this fire,
          The gods, who take a barbarous delight
          In leading a poor mortal's heart astray.
          Do you yourself recall to mind the past:
          'Twas not enough for me to fly, I chased you
          Out of the country, wishing to appear
          Inhuman, odious; to resist you better,
          I sought to make you hate me. All in vain!
          Hating me more I loved you none the less:
          New charms were lent to you by your misfortunes.
          I have been drown'd in tears, and scorch'd by fire;
          Your own eyes might convince you of the truth,
          If for one moment you could look at me.
          What is't I say? Think you this vile confession
          That I have made is what I meant to utter?
          Not daring to betray a son for whom
          I trembled, 'twas to beg you not to hate him
          I came. Weak purpose of a heart too full
          Of love for you to speak of aught besides!
          Take your revenge, punish my odious passion;
          Prove yourself worthy of your valiant sire,
          And rid the world of an offensive monster!
          Does Theseus' widow dare to love his son?
          The frightful monster! Let her not escape you!
          Here is my heart. This is the place to strike.
          Already prompt to expiate its guilt,
          I feel it leap impatiently to meet
          Your arm. Strike home. Or, if it would disgrace you
          To steep your hand in such polluted blood,
          If that were punishment too mild to slake
          Your hatred, lend me then your sword, if not
          Your arm. Quick, give't.

          What, Madam, will you do?
          Just gods! But someone comes. Go, fly from shame,
          You cannot 'scape if seen by any thus.
          SCENE VI
          Is that the form of Phaedra that I see
          Hurried away? What mean these signs of sorrow?
          Where is your sword? Why are you pale, confused?

          Friend, let us fly. I am, indeed, confounded
          With horror and astonishment extreme.
          Phaedra—but no; gods, let this dreadful secret
          Remain for ever buried in oblivion.

          The ship is ready if you wish to sail.
          But Athens has already giv'n her vote;
          Their leaders have consulted all her tribes;
          Your brother is elected, Phaedra wins.


          A herald, charged with a commission
          From Athens, has arrived to place the reins
          Of power in her hands. Her son is King.

          Ye gods, who know her, do ye thus reward
          Her virtue?

          A faint rumour meanwhile whispers
          That Theseus is not dead, but in Epirus
          Has shown himself. But, after all my search,
          I know too well—

          Let nothing be neglected.
          This rumour must be traced back to its source.
          If it be found unworthy of belief,
          Let us set sail, and cost whate'er it may,
          To hands deserving trust the sceptre's sway.


          Scene I
          Ah! Let them take elsewhere the worthless honours
          They bring me. Why so urgent I should see them?
          What flattering balm can soothe my wounded heart?
          Far rather hide me: I have said too much.
          My madness has burst forth like streams in flood,
          And I have utter'd what should ne'er have reach'd
          His ear. Gods! How he heard me! How reluctant
          To catch my meaning, dull and cold as marble,
          And eager only for a quick retreat!
          How oft his blushes made my shame the deeper!
          Why did you turn me from the death I sought?
          Ah! When his sword was pointed to my bosom,
          Did he grow pale, or try to snatch it from me?
          That I had touch'd it was enough for him
          To render it for ever horrible,
          Leaving defilement on the hand that holds it.

          Thus brooding on your bitter disappointment,
          You only fan a fire that must be stifled.
          Would it not be more worthy of the blood
          Of Minos to find peace in nobler cares,
          And, in defiance of a wretch who flies
          From what he hates, reign, mount the proffer'd throne?

          I reign! Shall I the rod of empire sway,
          When reason reigns no longer o'er myself?
          When I have lost control of all my senses?
          When 'neath a shameful yoke I scarce can breathe?
          When I am dying?


          I cannot leave him.

          Dare you not fly from him you dared to banish?

          The time for that is past. He knows my frenzy.
          I have o'erstepp'd the bounds of modesty,
          And blazon'd forth my shame before his eyes.
          Hope stole into my heart against my will.
          Did you not rally my declining pow'rs?
          Was it not you yourself recall'd my soul
          When fluttering on my lips, and with your counsel,
          Lent me fresh life, and told me I might love him?

          Blame me or blame me not for your misfortunes,
          Of what was I incapable, to save you?
          But if your indignation e'er was roused
          By insult, can you pardon his contempt?
          How cruelly his eyes, severely fix'd,
          Survey'd you almost prostrate at his feet!
          How hateful then appear'd his savage pride!
          Why did not Phaedra see him then as I
          Beheld him?

          This proud mood that you resent
          May yield to time. The rudeness of the forests
          Where he was bred, inured to rigorous laws,
          Clings to him still; love is a word he ne'er
          Had heard before. It may be his surprise
          Stunn'd him, and too much vehemence was shown
          In all I said.

          Remember that his mother
          Was a barbarian.

          Scythian tho' she was,
          She learned to love.

          He has for all the sex
          Hatred intense.

          Then in his heart no rival
          Shall ever reign. Your counsel comes too late
          Oenone, serve my madness, not my reason.
          His heart is inaccessible to love.
          Let us attack him where he has more feeling.
          The charms of sovereignty appear'd to touch him;
          He could not hide that he was drawn to Athens;
          His vessels' prows were thither turn'd already,
          All sail was set to scud before the breeze.
          Go you on my behalf, to his ambition
          Appeal, and let the prospect of the crown
          Dazzle his eyes. The sacred diadem
          Shall deck his brow, no higher honour mine
          Than there to bind it. His shall be the pow'r
          I cannot keep; and he shall teach my son
          How to rule men. It may be he will deign
          To be to him a father. Son and mother
          He shall control. Try ev'ry means to move him;
          Your words will find more favour than can mine.
          Urge him with groans and tears; show Phaedra dying.
          Nor blush to use the voice of supplication.
          In you is my last hope; I'll sanction all
          You say; and on the issue hangs my fate.
          Scene II
          PHAEDRA (alone)
          Venus implacable, who seest me shamed
          And sore confounded, have I not enough
          Been humbled? How can cruelty be stretch'd
          Farther? Thy shafts have all gone home, and thou
          Hast triumph'd. Would'st thou win a new renown?
          Attack an enemy more contumacious:
          Hippolytus neglects thee, braves thy wrath,
          Nor ever at thine altars bow'd the knee.
          Thy name offends his proud, disdainful ears.
          Our interests are alike: avenge thyself,
          Force him to love—
          But what is this? Oenone
          Return'd already? He detests me then,
          And will not hear you.
          SCENE III
          Madam, you must stifle
          A fruitless love. Recall your former virtue:
          The king who was thought dead will soon appear
          Before your eyes, Theseus has just arrived,
          Theseus is here. The people flock to see him
          With eager haste. I went by your command
          To find the prince, when with a thousand shouts
          The air was rent—

          My husband is alive,
          That is enough, Oenone. I have own'd
          A passion that dishonours him. He lives:
          I ask to know no more.


          I foretold it,
          But you refused to hear. Your tears prevail'd
          Over my just remorse. Dying this morn,
          I had deserved compassion; your advice
          I took, and die dishonour'd.


          Just Heav'ns!
          What have I done to-day? My husband comes,
          With him his son: and I shall see the witness
          Of my adulterous flame watch with what face
          I greet his father, while my heart is big
          With sighs he scorn'd, and tears that could not move him
          Moisten mine eyes. Think you that his respect
          For Theseus will induce him to conceal
          My madness, nor disgrace his sire and king?
          Will he be able to keep back the horror
          He has for me? His silence would be vain.
          I know my treason, and I lack the boldness
          Of those abandon'd women who can taste
          Tranquillity in crime, and show a forehead
          All unabash'd. I recognize my madness,
          Recall it all. These vaulted roofs, methinks,
          These walls can speak, and, ready to accuse me,
          Wait but my husband's presence to reveal
          My perfidy. Death only can remove
          This weight of horror. Is it such misfortune
          To cease to live? Death causes no alarm
          To misery. I only fear the name
          That I shall leave behind me. For my sons
          How sad a heritage! The blood of Jove
          Might justly swell the pride that boasts descent
          From Heav'n, but heavy weighs a mother's guilt
          Upon her offspring. Yes, I dread the scorn
          That will be cast on them, with too much truth,
          For my disgrace. I tremble when I think
          That, crush'd beneath that curse, they'll never dare
          To raise their eyes.

          Doubt not I pity both;
          Never was fear more just than yours. Why, then,
          Expose them to this ignominy? Why
          Will you accuse yourself? You thus destroy
          The only hope that's left; it will be said
          That Phaedra, conscious of her perfidy,
          Fled from her husband's sight. Hippolytus
          Will be rejoiced that, dying, you should lend
          His charge support. What can I answer him?
          He'll find it easy to confute my tale,
          And I shall hear him with an air of triumph
          To every open ear repeat your shame.
          Sooner than that may fire from heav'n consume me!
          Deceive me not. Say, do you love him still?
          How look you now on this contemptuous prince?

          As on a monster frightful to mine eyes.

          Why yield him, then, an easy victory?
          You fear him? Venture to accuse him first,
          As guilty of the charge which he may bring
          This day against you. Who can say 'tis false?
          All tells against him: in your hands his sword
          Happily left behind, your present trouble,
          Your past distress, your warnings to his father,
          His exile which your earnest pray'rs obtain'd.

          What! Would you have me slander innocence?

          My zeal has need of naught from you but silence.
          Like you I tremble, and am loath to do it;
          More willingly I'd face a thousand deaths,
          But since without this bitter remedy
          I lose you, and to me your life outweighs
          All else, I'll speak. Theseus, howe'er enraged
          Will do no worse than banish him again.
          A father, when he punishes, remains
          A father, and his ire is satisfied
          With a light sentence. But if guiltless blood
          Should flow, is not your honour of more moment?
          A treasure far too precious to be risk'd?
          You must submit, whatever it dictates;
          For, when our reputation is at stake,
          All must be sacrificed, conscience itself.
          But someone comes. 'Tis Theseus.

          And I see
          Hippolytus, my ruin plainly written
          In his stern eyes. Do what you will; I trust
          My fate to you. I cannot help myself.
          SCENE IV
          Fortune no longer fights against my wishes,
          Madam, and to your arms restores—

          Stay, Theseus!
          Do not profane endearments that were once
          So sweet, but which I am unworthy now
          To taste. You have been wrong'd. Fortune has proved
          Spiteful, nor in your absence spared your wife.
          I am unfit to meet your fond caress,
          How I may bear my shame my only care
          Scene V
          Strange welcome for your father, this!
          What does it mean, my son?

          Phaedra alone
          Can solve this mystery. But if my wish
          Can move you, let me never see her more;
          Suffer Hippolytus to disappear
          For ever from the home that holds your wife.

          You, my son! Leave me?

          'Twas not I who sought her:
          'Twas you who led her footsteps to these shores.
          At your departure you thought meet, my lord,
          To trust Aricia and the Queen to this
          Troezenian land, and I myself was charged
          With their protection. But what cares henceforth
          Need keep me here? My youth of idleness
          Has shown its skill enough o'er paltry foes
          That range the woods. May I not quit a life
          Of such inglorious ease, and dip my spear
          In nobler blood? Ere you had reach'd my age
          More than one tyrant, monster more than one
          Had felt the weight of your stout arm. Already,
          Successful in attacking insolence,
          You had removed all dangers that infested
          Our coasts to east and west. The traveller fear'd
          Outrage no longer. Hearing of your deeds,
          Already Hercules relied on you,
          And rested from his toils. While I, unknown
          Son of so brave a sire, am far behind
          Even my mother's footsteps. Let my courage
          Have scope to act, and if some monster yet
          Has 'scaped you, let me lay the glorious spoils
          Down at your feet; or let the memory
          Of death faced nobly keep my name alive,
          And prove to all the world I was your son.

          Why, what is this? What terror has possess'd
          My family to make them fly before me?
          If I return to find myself so fear'd,
          So little welcome, why did Heav'n release me
          From prison? My sole friend, misled by passion,
          Was bent on robbing of his wife the tyrant
          Who ruled Epirus. With regret I lent
          The lover aid, but Fate had made us blind,
          Myself as well as him. The tyrant seized me
          Defenceless and unarm'd. Pirithous
          I saw with tears cast forth to be devour'd
          By savage beasts that lapp'd the blood of men.
          Myself in gloomy caverns he inclosed,
          Deep in the bowels of the earth, and nigh
          To Pluto's realms. Six months I lay ere Heav'n
          Had pity, and I 'scaped the watchful eyes
          That guarded me. Then did I purge the world
          Of a foul foe, and he himself has fed
          His monsters. But when with expectant joy
          To all that is most precious I draw near
          Of what the gods have left me, when my soul
          Looks for full satisfaction in a sight
          So dear, my only welcome is a shudder,
          Embrace rejected, and a hasty flight.
          Inspiring, as I clearly do, such terror,
          Would I were still a prisoner in Epirus!
          Phaedra complains that I have suffer'd outrage.
          Who has betray'd me? Speak. Why was I not
          Avenged? Has Greece, to whom mine arm so oft
          Brought useful aid, shelter'd the criminal?
          You make no answer. Is my son, mine own
          Dear son, confederate with mine enemies?
          I'll enter. This suspense is overwhelming.
          I'll learn at once the culprit and the crime,
          And Phaedra must explain her troubled state.
          Scene VI
          What do these words portend, which seem'd to freeze
          My very blood? Will Phaedra, in her frenzy
          Accuse herself, and seal her own destruction?
          What will the King say? Gods! What fatal poison
          Has love spread over all his house! Myself,
          Full of a fire his hatred disapproves,
          How changed he finds me from the son he knew!
          With dark forebodings in my mind alarm'd,
          But innocence has surely naught to fear.
          Come, let us go, and in some other place
          Consider how I best may move my sire
          To tenderness, and tell him of a flame
          Vex'd but not vanquish'd by a father's blame.


          Scene I
          Ah! What is this I hear? Presumptuous traitor!
          And would he have disgraced his father's honour?
          With what relentless footsteps Fate pursues me!
          Whither I go I know not, nor where know
          I am. O kind affection ill repaid!
          Audacious scheme! Abominable thought!
          To reach the object of his foul desire
          The wretch disdain'd not to use violence.
          I know this sword that served him in his fury,
          The sword I gave him for a nobler use.
          Could not the sacred ties of blood restrain him?
          And Phaedra,—was she loath to have him punish'd?
          She held her tongue. Was that to spare the culprit?

          Nay, but to spare a most unhappy father.
          O'erwhelm'd with shame that her eyes should have kindled
          So infamous a flame and prompted him
          To crime so heinous, Phaedra would have died.
          I saw her raise her arm, and ran to save her.
          To me alone you owe it that she lives;
          And, in my pity both for her and you,
          Have I against my will interpreted
          Her tears.

          The traitor! He might well turn pale.
          'Twas fear that made him tremble when he saw me.
          I was astonish'd that he show'd no pleasure;
          His frigid greeting chill'd my tenderness.
          But was this guilty passion that devours him
          Declared already ere I banish'd him
          From Athens?

          Sire, remember how the Queen
          Urged you. Illicit love caused all her hatred.

          And then this fire broke out again at Troezen?

          Sire, I have told you all. Too long the Queen
          Has been allow'd to bear her grief alone
          Let me now leave you and attend to her.
          Scene II
          Ah! There he is. Great gods! That noble mien
          Might well deceive an eye less fond than mine!
          Why should the sacred stamp of virtue gleam
          Upon the forehead of an impious wretch?
          Ought not the blackness of a traitor's heart
          To show itself by sure and certain signs?

          My father, may I ask what fatal cloud
          Has troubled your majestic countenance?
          Dare you not trust this secret to your son?

          Traitor, how dare you show yourself before me?
          Monster, whom Heaven's bolts have spared too long!
          Survivor of that robber crew whereof
          I cleansed the earth. After your brutal lust
          Scorn'd even to respect my marriage bed,
          You venture—you, my hated foe—to come
          Into my presence, here, where all is full
          Of your foul infamy, instead of seeking
          Some unknown land that never heard my name.
          Fly, traitor, fly! Stay not to tempt the wrath
          That I can scarce restrain, nor brave my hatred.
          Disgrace enough have I incurr'd for ever
          In being father of so vile a son,
          Without your death staining indelibly
          The glorious record of my noble deeds.
          Fly, and unless you wish quick punishment
          To add you to the criminals cut off
          By me, take heed this sun that lights us now
          Ne'er sees you more set foot upon this soil.
          I tell you once again,—fly, haste, return not,
          Rid all my realms of your atrocious presence.
          To thee, to thee, great Neptune, I appeal
          If erst I clear'd thy shores of foul assassins
          Recall thy promise to reward those efforts,
          Crown'd with success, by granting my first pray'r.
          Confined for long in close captivity,
          I have not yet call'd on thy pow'rful aid,
          Sparing to use the valued privilege
          Till at mine utmost need. The time is come
          I ask thee now. Avenge a wretched father!
          I leave this traitor to thy wrath; in blood
          Quench his outrageous fires, and by thy fury
          Theseus will estimate thy favour tow'rds him.

          Phaedra accuses me of lawless passion!
          This crowning horror all my soul confounds;
          Such unexpected blows, falling at once,
          O'erwhelm me, choke my utterance, strike me dumb.

          Traitor, you reckon'd that in timid silence
          Phaedra would bury your brutality.
          You should not have abandon'd in your flight
          The sword that in her hands helps to condemn you;
          Or rather, to complete your perfidy,
          You should have robb'd her both of speech and life.

          Justly indignant at a lie so black
          I might be pardon'd if I told the truth;
          But it concerns your honour to conceal it.
          Approve the reverence that shuts my mouth;
          And, without wishing to increase your woes,
          Examine closely what my life has been.
          Great crimes are never single, they are link'd
          To former faults. He who has once transgress'd
          May violate at last all that men hold
          Most sacred; vice, like virtue, has degrees
          Of progress; innocence was never seen
          To sink at once into the lowest depths
          Of guilt. No virtuous man can in a day
          Turn traitor, murderer, an incestuous wretch.
          The nursling of a chaste, heroic mother,
          I have not proved unworthy of my birth.
          Pittheus, whose wisdom is by all esteem'd,
          Deign'd to instruct me when I left her hands.
          It is no wish of mine to vaunt my merits,
          But, if I may lay claim to any virtue,
          I think beyond all else I have display'd
          Abhorrence of those sins with which I'm charged.
          For this Hippolytus is known in Greece,
          So continent that he is deem'd austere.
          All know my abstinence inflexible:
          The daylight is not purer than my heart.
          How, then, could I, burning with fire profane—

          Yes, dastard, 'tis that very pride condemns you.
          I see the odious reason of your coldness
          Phaedra alone bewitch'd your shameless eyes;
          Your soul, to others' charms indifferent,
          Disdain'd the blameless fires of lawful love.

          No, father, I have hidden it too long,
          This heart has not disdain'd a sacred flame.
          Here at your feet I own my real offence:
          I love, and love in truth where you forbid me;
          Bound to Aricia by my heart's devotion,
          The child of Pallas has subdued your son.
          A rebel to your laws, her I adore,
          And breathe forth ardent sighs for her alone.

          You love her? Heav'ns!
          But no, I see the trick.
          You feign a crime to justify yourself.

          Sir, I have shunn'd her for six months, and still
          Love her. To you yourself I came to tell it,
          Trembling the while. Can nothing clear your mind
          Of your mistake? What oath can reassure you?
          By heav'n and earth and all the pow'rs of nature—

          The wicked never shrink from perjury.
          Cease, cease, and spare me irksome protestations,
          If your false virtue has no other aid.

          Tho' it to you seem false and insincere,
          Phaedra has secret cause to know it true.

          Ah! how your shamelessness excites my wrath!

          What is my term and place of banishment?

          Were you beyond the Pillars of Alcides,
          Your perjured presence were too near me yet.

          What friends will pity me, when you forsake
          And think me guilty of a crime so vile?

          Go, look you out for friends who hold in honour
          Adultery and clap their hands at incest,
          Low, lawless traitors, steep'd in infamy,
          The fit protectors of a knave like you.

          Are incest and adultery the words
          You cast at me? I hold my tongue. Yet think
          What mother Phaedra had; too well you know
          Her blood, not mine, is tainted with those horrors.

          What! Does your rage before my eyes lose all
          Restraint? For the last time,—out of my sight!
          Hence, traitor! Wait not till a father's wrath
          Force thee away 'mid general execration.
          Scene III
          THESEUS (alone)
          Wretch! Thou must meet inevitable ruin.
          Neptune has sworn by Styx—to gods themselves
          A dreadful oath,—and he will execute
          His promise. Thou canst not escape his vengeance.
          I loved thee; and, in spite of thine offence,
          My heart is troubled by anticipation
          For thee. But thou hast earn'd thy doom too well.
          Had father ever greater cause for rage?
          Just gods, who see the grief that overwhelms me,
          Why was I cursed with such a wicked son?
          SCENE IV
          My lord, I come to you, fill'd with just dread.
          Your voice raised high in anger reach'd mine ears,
          And much I fear that deeds have follow'd threats.
          Oh, if there yet is time, spare your own offspring.
          Respect your race and blood, I do beseech you.
          Let me not hear that blood cry from the ground;
          Save me the horror and perpetual pain
          Of having caused his father's hand to shed it.

          No, Madam, from that stain my hand is free.
          But, for all that, the wretch has not escaped me.
          The hand of an Immortal now is charged
          With his destruction. 'Tis a debt that Neptune
          Owes me, and you shall be avenged.

          A debt
          Owed you? Pray'rs made in anger—

          Never fear
          That they will fail. Rather join yours to mine
          In all their blackness paint for me his crimes,
          And fan my tardy passion to white heat.
          But yet you know not all his infamy;
          His rage against you overflows in slanders;
          Your mouth, he says, is full of all deceit,
          He says Aricia has his heart and soul,
          That her alone he loves.


          He said it to my face! an idle pretext!
          A trick that gulls me not! Let us hope Neptune
          Will do him speedy justice. To his altars
          I go, to urge performance of his oaths.
          SCENE V
          PHAEDRA (alone)
          Ah, he is gone! What tidings struck mine ears?
          What fire, half smother'd, in my heart revives?
          What fatal stroke falls like a thunderbolt?
          Stung by remorse that would not let me rest,
          I tore myself out of Oenone's arms,
          And flew to help Hippolytus with all
          My soul and strength. Who knows if that repentance
          Might not have moved me to accuse myself?
          And, if my voice had not been choked with shame,
          Perhaps I had confess'd the frightful truth.
          Hippolytus can feel, but not for me!
          Aricia has his heart, his plighted troth.
          Ye gods, when, deaf to all my sighs and tears,
          He arm'd his eye with scorn, his brow with threats,
          I deem'd his heart, impregnable to love,
          Was fortified 'gainst all my sex alike.
          And yet another has prevail'd to tame
          His pride, another has secured his favour.
          Perhaps he has a heart easily melted;
          I am the only one he cannot bear!
          And shall I charge myself with his defence?
          SCENE VI
          Know you, dear Nurse, what I have learn'd just now?

          No; but I come in truth with trembling limbs.
          I dreaded with what purpose you went forth,
          The fear of fatal madness made me pale.

          Who would have thought it, Nurse? I had a rival.

          A rival?

          Yes, he loves. I cannot doubt it.
          This wild untamable Hippolytus,
          Who scorn'd to be admired, whom lovers' sighs
          Wearied, this tiger, whom I fear'd to rouse,
          Fawns on a hand that has subdued his pride:
          Aricia has found entrance to his heart.


          Ah! anguish as yet untried!
          For what new tortures am I still reserved?
          All I have undergone, transports of passion,
          Longings and fears, the horrors of remorse,
          The shame of being spurn'd with contumely,
          Were feeble foretastes of my present torments.
          They love each other! By what secret charm
          Have they deceived me? Where, and when, and how
          Met they? You knew it all. Why was I cozen'd?
          You never told me of those stolen hours
          Of amorous converse. Have they oft been seen
          Talking together? Did they seek the shades
          Of thickest woods? Alas! full freedom had they
          To see each other. Heav'n approved their sighs;
          They loved without the consciousness of guilt;
          And every morning's sun for them shone clear,
          While I, an outcast from the face of Nature,
          Shunn'd the bright day, and sought to hide myself.
          Death was the only god whose aid I dared
          To ask: I waited for the grave's release.
          Water'd with tears, nourish'd with gall, my woe
          Was all too closely watch'd; I did not dare
          To weep without restraint. In mortal dread
          Tasting this dangerous solace, I disguised
          My terror 'neath a tranquil countenance,
          And oft had I to check my tears, and smile.

          What fruit will they enjoy of their vain love?
          They will not see each other more.

          That love
          Will last for ever. Even while I speak,
          Ah, fatal thought, they laugh to scorn the madness
          Of my distracted heart. In spite of exile
          That soon must part them, with a thousand oaths
          They seal yet closer union. Can I suffer
          A happiness, Oenone, which insults me?
          I crave your pity. She must be destroy'd.
          My husband's wrath against a hateful stock
          Shall be revived, nor must the punishment
          Be light: the sister's guilt passes the brothers'.
          I will entreat him in my jealous rage.
          What am I saying? Have I lost my senses?
          Is Phaedra jealous, and will she implore
          Theseus for help? My husband lives, and yet
          I burn. For whom? Whose heart is this I claim
          As mine? At every word I say, my hair
          Stands up with horror. Guilt henceforth has pass'd
          All bounds. Hypocrisy and incest breathe
          At once thro' all. My murderous hands are ready
          To spill the blood of guileless innocence.
          Do I yet live, wretch that I am, and dare
          To face this holy Sun from whom I spring?
          My father's sire was king of all the gods;
          My ancestors fill all the universe.
          Where can I hide? In the dark realms of Pluto?
          But there my father holds the fatal urn;
          His hand awards th' irrevocable doom:
          Minos is judge of all the ghosts in hell.
          Ah! how his awful shade will start and shudder
          When he shall see his daughter brought before him,
          Forced to confess sins of such varied dye,
          Crimes it may be unknown to hell itself!
          What wilt thou say, my father, at a sight
          So dire? I think I see thee drop the urn,
          And, seeking some unheard-of punishment,
          Thyself become my executioner.
          Spare me! A cruel goddess has destroy'd
          Thy race; and in my madness recognize
          Her wrath. Alas! My aching heart has reap'd
          No fruit of pleasure from the frightful crime
          The shame of which pursues me to the grave,
          And ends in torment life-long misery.

          Ah, Madam, pray dismiss a groundless dread:
          Look less severely on a venial error.
          You love. We cannot conquer destiny.
          You were drawn on as by a fatal charm.
          Is that a marvel without precedent
          Among us? Has love triumph'd over you,
          And o'er none else? Weakness is natural
          To man. A mortal, to a mortal's lot
          Submit. You chafe against a yoke that others
          Have long since borne. The dwellers in Olympus,
          The gods themselves, who terrify with threats
          The sins of men, have burn'd with lawless fires.

          What words are these I hear? What counsel this
          You dare to give me? Will you to the end
          Pour poison in mine ears? You have destroy'd me.
          You brought me back when I should else have quitted
          The light of day, made me forget my duty
          And see Hippolytus, till then avoided.
          What hast thou done? Why did your wicked mouth
          With blackest lies slander his blameless life?
          Perhaps you've slain him, and the impious pray'r
          Of an unfeeling father has been answer'd.
          No, not another word! Go, hateful monster;
          Away, and leave me to my piteous fate.
          May Heav'n with justice pay you your deserts!
          And may your punishment for ever be
          A terror to all those who would, like you,
          Nourish with artful wiles the weaknesses
          Of princes, push them to the brink of ruin
          To which their heart inclines, and smooth the path
          Of guilt. Such flatterers doth the wrath of Heav'n
          Bestow on kings as its most fatal gift.

          OENONE (alone)
          O gods! to serve her what have I not done?
          This is the due reward that I have won.


          SCENE I
          Can you keep silent in this mortal peril?
          Your father loves you. Will you leave him thus
          Deceived? If in your cruel heart you scorn
          My tears, content to see me nevermore,
          Go, part from poor Aricia; but at least,
          Going, secure the safety of your life.
          Defend your honor from a shameful stain,
          And force your father to recall his pray'rs.
          There yet is time. Why out of mere caprice
          Leave the field free to Phaedra's calumnies?
          Let Theseus know the truth.

          Could I say more,
          Without exposing him to dire disgrace?
          How should I venture, by revealing all,
          To make a father's brow grow red with shame?
          The odious mystery to you alone
          Is known. My heart has been outpour'd to none
          Save you and Heav'n. I could not hide from you
          (Judge if I love you), all I fain would hide
          E'en from myself. But think under what seal
          I spoke. Forget my words, if that may be;
          And never let so pure a mouth disclose
          This dreadful secret. Let us trust to Heav'n
          My vindication, for the gods are just;
          For their own honour will they clear the guiltless;
          Sooner or later punish'd for her crime,
          Phaedra will not escape the shame she merits.
          I ask no other favour than your silence;
          In all besides I give my wrath free scope.
          Make your escape from this captivity,
          Be bold to bear me company in flight;
          Linger not here on this accursed soil,
          Where virtue breathes a pestilential air.
          To cover your departure take advantage
          Of this confusion, caused by my disgrace.
          The means of flight are ready, be assured;
          You have as yet no other guards than mine.
          Pow'rful defenders will maintain our quarrel;
          Argos spreads open arms, and Sparta calls us.
          Let us appeal for justice to our friends,
          Nor suffer Phaedra, in a common ruin
          Joining us both, to hunt us from the throne,
          And aggrandise her son by robbing us.
          Embrace this happy opportunity:
          What fear restrains? You seem to hesitate.
          Your interest alone prompts me to urge
          Boldness. When I am all on fire, how comes it
          That you are ice? Fear you to follow then
          A banish'd man?

          Ah, dear to me would be
          Such exile! With what joy, my fate to yours
          United, could I live, by all the world
          Forgotten! but not yet has that sweet tie
          Bound us together. How then can I steal
          Away with you? I know the strictest honour
          Forbids me not out of your father's hands
          To free myself; this is no parent's home,
          And flight is lawful when one flies from tyrants.
          But you, Sir, love me; and my virtue shrinks—

          No, no, your reputation is to me
          As dear as to yourself. A nobler purpose
          Brings me to you. Fly from your foes, and follow
          A husband. Heav'n, that sends us these misfortunes,
          Sets free from human instruments the pledge
          Between us. Torches do not always light
          The face of Hymen.
          At the gates of Troezen,
          'Mid ancient tombs where princes of my race
          Lie buried, stands a temple, ne'er approach'd
          By perjurers, where mortals dare not make
          False oaths, for instant punishment befalls
          The guilty. Falsehood knows no stronger check
          Than what is present there—the fear of death
          That cannot be avoided. Thither then
          We'll go, if you consent, and swear to love
          For ever, take the guardian god to witness
          Our solemn vows, and his paternal care
          Entreat. I will invoke the name of all
          The holiest Pow'rs; chaste Dian, and the Queen
          Of Heav'n, yea all the gods who know my heart
          Will guarantee my sacred promises.

          The King draws near. Depart,—make no delay.
          To mask my flight, I linger yet one moment.
          Go you; and leave with me some trusty guide,
          To lead my timid footsteps to your side.
          SCENE II
          Ye gods, throw light upon my troubled mind,
          Show me the truth which I am seeking here.

          ARICIA (aside to ISMENE)
          Get ready, dear Ismene, for our flight.
          SCENE III
          Your colour comes and goes, you seem confused,
          Madame! What business had my son with you?

          Sire, he was bidding me farewell for ever.

          Your eyes, it seems, can tame that stubborn pride;
          And the first sighs he breathes are paid to you.

          I can't deny the truth; he has not, Sire,
          Inherited your hatred and injustice;
          He did not treat me like a criminal.

          That is to say, he swore eternal love.
          Do not rely on that inconstant heart;
          To others has he sworn as much before.

          He, Sire?

          You ought to check his roving taste.
          How could you bear a partnership so vile?

          And how can you endure that vilest slanders
          Should make a life so pure as black as pitch?
          Have you so little knowledge of his heart?
          Do you so ill distinguish between guilt
          And innocence? What mist before your eyes
          Blinds them to virtue so conspicuous?
          Ah! 'tis too much to let false tongues defame him.
          Repent; call back your murderous wishes, Sire;
          Fear, fear lest Heav'n in its severity
          Hate you enough to hear and grant your pray'rs.
          Oft in their wrath the gods accept our victims,
          And oftentimes chastise us with their gifts.

          No, vainly would you cover up his guilt.
          Your love is blind to his depravity.
          But I have witness irreproachable:
          Tears have I seen, true tears, that may be trusted.

          Take heed, my lord. Your hands invincible
          Have rid the world of monsters numberless;
          But all are not destroy'd, one you have left
          Alive—Your son forbids me to say more.
          Knowing with what respect he still regards you,
          I should too much distress him if I dared
          Complete my sentence. I will imitate
          His reverence, and, to keep silence, leave you.
          SCENE IV
          THESEUS (alone)
          What is there in her mind? What meaning lurks
          In speech begun but to be broken short?
          Would both deceive me with a vain pretence?
          Have they conspired to put me to the torture?
          And yet, despite my stern severity,
          What plaintive voice cries deep within my heart?
          A secret pity troubles and alarms me.
          Oenone shall be questioned once again,
          I must have clearer light upon this crime.
          Guards, bid Oenone come, and come alone.
          SCENE V
          I know not what the Queen intends to do,
          But from her agitation dread the worst.
          Fatal despair is painted on her features;
          Death's pallor is already in her face.
          Oenone, shamed and driven from her sight,
          Has cast herself into the ocean depths.
          None knows what prompted her to deed so rash;
          And now the waves hide her from us for ever.

          What say you?

          Her sad fate seems to have added
          Fresh trouble to the Queen's tempestuous soul.
          Sometimes, to soothe her secret pain, she clasps
          Her children close, and bathes them with her tears;
          Then suddenly, the mother's love forgotten,
          She thrusts them from her with a look of horror,
          She wanders to and fro with doubtful steps;
          Her vacant eye no longer knows us. Thrice
          She wrote, and thrice did she, changing her mind,
          Destroy the letter ere 'twas well begun.
          Vouchsafe to see her, Sire: vouchsafe to help her.

          Heav'ns! Is Oenone dead, and Phaedra bent
          On dying too? Oh, call me back my son!
          Let him defend himself, and I am ready
          To hear him. Be not hasty to bestow
          Thy fatal bounty, Neptune; let my pray'rs
          Rather remain ever unheard. Too soon
          I lifted cruel hands, believing lips
          That may have lied! Ah! What despair may follow!
          SCENE VI
          Theramenes, is't thou? Where is my son?
          I gave him to thy charge from tenderest childhood.
          But whence these tears that overflow thine eyes?
          How is it with my son?

          Concern too late!
          Affection vain! Hippolytus is dead.


          I have seen the flow'r of all mankind
          Cut off, and I am bold to say that none
          Deserved it less.

          What! My son dead! When I
          Was stretching out my arms to him, has Heav'n
          Hasten'd his end? What was this sudden stroke?

          Scarce had we pass'd out of the gates of Troezen,
          He silent in his chariot, and his guards
          Downcast and silent too, around him ranged;
          To the Mycenian road he turn'd his steeds,
          Then, lost in thought, allow'd the reins to lie
          Loose on their backs. His noble chargers, erst
          So full of ardour to obey his voice,
          With head depress'd and melancholy eye
          Seem'd now to mark his sadness and to share it.
          A frightful cry, that issues from the deep,
          With sudden discord rends the troubled air;
          And from the bosom of the earth a groan
          Is heard in answer to that voice of terror.
          Our blood is frozen at our very hearts;
          With bristling manes the list'ning steeds stand still.
          Meanwhile upon the watery plain there rises
          A mountain billow with a mighty crest
          Of foam, that shoreward rolls, and, as it breaks
          Before our eyes vomits a furious monster.
          With formidable horns its brow is arm'd,
          And all its body clothed with yellow scales,
          In front a savage bull, behind a dragon
          Turning and twisting in impatient rage.
          Its long continued bellowings make the shore
          Tremble; the sky seems horror-struck to see it;
          The earth with terror quakes; its poisonous breath
          Infects the air. The wave that brought it ebbs
          In fear. All fly, forgetful of the courage
          That cannot aid, and in a neighbouring temple
          Take refuge—all save bold Hippolytus.
          A hero's worthy son, he stays his steeds,
          Seizes his darts, and, rushing forward, hurls
          A missile with sure aim that wounds the monster
          Deep in the flank. With rage and pain it springs
          E'en to the horses' feet, and, roaring, falls,
          Writhes in the dust, and shows a fiery throat
          That covers them with flames, and blood, and smoke.
          Fear lends them wings; deaf to his voice for once,
          And heedless of the curb, they onward fly.
          Their master wastes his strength in efforts vain;
          With foam and blood each courser's bit is red.
          Some say a god, amid this wild disorder,
          Was seen with goads pricking their dusty flanks.
          O'er jagged rocks they rush urged on by terror;
          Crash! goes the axle-tree. Th' intrepid youth
          Sees his car broken up, flying to pieces;
          He falls himself entangled in the reins.
          Pardon my grief. That cruel spectacle
          Will be for me a source of endless tears.
          I saw thy hapless son, I saw him, Sire,
          Drag'd by the horses that his hands had fed,
          Pow'rless to check their fierce career, his voice
          But adding to their fright, his body soon
          One mass of wounds. Our cries of anguish fill
          The plain. At last they slacken their swift pace,
          Then stop, not far from those old tombs that mark
          Where lie the ashes of his royal sires.
          Panting I thither run, and after me
          His guard, along the track stain'd with fresh blood
          That reddens all the rocks; caught in the briers
          Locks of his hair hang dripping, gory spoils!
          I come, I call him. Stretching forth his hand,
          He opens his dying eyes, soon closed again.
          "The gods have robb'd me of a guiltless life,"
          I hear him say: "Take care of sad Aricia
          When I am dead. Dear friend, if e'er my father
          Mourn, undeceived, his son's unhappy fate
          Falsely accused; to give my spirit peace,
          Tell him to treat his captive tenderly,
          And to restore—" With that the hero's breath
          Fails, and a mangled corpse lies in my arms,
          A piteous object, trophy of the wrath
          Of Heav'n—so changed, his father would not know him.

          Alas, my son! Dear hope for ever lost!
          The ruthless gods have served me but too well.
          For what a life of anguish and remorse
          Am I reserved!

          Aricia at that instant,
          Flying from you, comes timidly, to take him
          For husband, there, in presence of the gods.
          Thus drawing nigh, she sees the grass all red
          And reeking, sees (sad sight for lover's eye!)
          Hippolytus stretch'd there, pale and disfigured.
          But, for a time doubtful of her misfortune,
          Unrecognized the hero she adores,
          She looks, and asks—"Where is Hippolytus?"
          Only too sure at last that he lies there
          Before her, with sad eyes that silently
          Reproach the gods, she shudders, groans, and falls
          Swooning and all but lifeless, at his feet.
          Ismene, all in tears, kneels down beside her,
          And calls her back to life—life that is naught
          But sense of pain. And I, to whom this light
          Is darkness now, come to discharge the duty
          The hero has imposed on me, to tell thee
          His last request—a melancholy task.
          But hither comes his mortal enemy.
          SCENE VII
          Madame, you've triumph'd, and my son is kill'd!
          Ah, but what room have I for fear! How justly
          Suspicion racks me that in blaming him
          I err'd! But he is dead; accept your victim;
          Rightly or wrongly slain, let your heart leap
          For joy. My eyes shall be for ever blind:
          Since you accuse him, I'll believe him guilty.
          His death affords me cause enough for tears,
          Without a foolish search for further light
          Which, pow'rless to restore him to my grief,
          Might only serve to make me more unhappy,
          Far from this shore and far from you I'll fly,
          For here the image of my mangled son
          Would haunt my memory and drive me mad.
          From the whole world I fain would banish me,
          For all the world seems to rise up in judgment
          Against me; and my very glory weights
          My punishment; for, were my name less known
          'Twere easier to hide me. All the favours
          The gods have granted me I mourn and hate,
          Nor will I importune them with vain pray'rs
          Henceforth for ever. Give me what they may,
          What they have taken will all else outweigh.

          Theseus, I cannot hear you and keep silence:
          I must repair the wrong that he has suffer'd—
          Your son was innocent.

          Unhappy father!
          And it was on your word that I condemn'd him!
          Think you such cruelty can be excused—

          Moments to me are precious; hear me, Theseus.
          'Twas I who cast an eye of lawless passion
          On chaste and dutiful Hippolytus.
          Heav'n in my bosom kindled baleful fire,
          And vile Oenone's cunning did the rest.
          She fear'd Hippolytus, knowing my madness,
          Would make that passion known which he regarded
          With horror; so advantage of my weakness
          She took, and hasten'd to accuse him first.
          For that she has been punish'd, tho' too mildly;
          Seeking to shun my wrath she cast herself
          Beneath the waves. The sword ere now had cut
          My thread of life, but slander'd innocence
          Made its cry heard, and I resolved to die
          In a more lingering way, confessing first
          My penitence to you. A poison, brought
          To Athens by Medea, runs thro' my veins.
          Already in my heart the venom works,
          Infusing there a strange and fatal chill;
          Already as thro' thickening mists I see
          The spouse to whom my presence is an outrage;
          Death, from mine eyes veiling the light of heav'n,
          Restores its purity that they defiled.

          She dies my lord!

          Would that the memory
          Of her disgraceful deed could perish with her!
          Ah, disabused too late! Come, let us go,
          And with the blood of mine unhappy son
          Mingle our tears, clasping his dear remains,
          In deep repentance for a pray'r detested.
          Let him be honour'd as he well deserves;
          And, to appease his sore offended ghost,
          Be her near kinsmen's guilt whate'er it may,
          Aricia shall be held my daughter from to-day.

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