The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPhaedraThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PhaedraAuthor: Jean RacineTranslator: Robert Bruce BoswellRelease date: November 1, 1999 [eBook #1977]Most recently updated: February 7, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Dagny, John Bickers, and David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHAEDRA ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: PhaedraAuthor: Jean RacineTranslator: Robert Bruce BoswellRelease date: November 1, 1999 [eBook #1977]Most recently updated: February 7, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Dagny, John Bickers, and David Widger
Title: Phaedra
Author: Jean RacineTranslator: Robert Bruce Boswell
Author: Jean Racine
Translator: Robert Bruce Boswell
Release date: November 1, 1999 [eBook #1977]Most recently updated: February 7, 2013
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Dagny, John Bickers, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHAEDRA ***
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
PHAEDRA
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
ACT IV
ACT V
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.
CHARACTERSTHESEUS, 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.GUARDS.
The scene is laid at Troezen, a town of the Peloponnesus.
SCENE IHIPPOLYTUS, THERAMENES
HIPPOLYTUSMy 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 dearI know not, nor what corner of the earthHides him.THERAMENESAnd where, prince, will you look for him?Already, to content your just alarm,Have I not cross'd the seas on either sideOf Corinth, ask'd if aught were known of TheseusWhere Acheron is lost among the Shades,Visited Elis, doubled Toenarus,And sail'd into the sea that saw the fallOf Icarus? Inspired with what new hope,Under what favour'd skies think you to traceHis 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—HIPPOLYTUSCease, dear Theramenes, respect the nameOf Theseus. Youthful errors have been leftBehind, and no unworthy obstacleDetains him. Phaedra long has fix'd a heartInconstant 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.THERAMENESIndeed! When, prince, did you begin to dreadThese peaceful haunts, so dear to happy childhood,Where I have seen you oft prefer to stay,Rather than meet the tumult and the pompOf Athens and the court? What danger shun you,Or shall I say what grief?HIPPOLYTUSThat happy timeIs gone, and all is changed, since to these shoresThe gods sent Phaedra.THERAMENESI perceive the causeOf your distress. It is the queen whose sightOffends you. With a step-dame's spite she schemedYour 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 diseaseOf which she will not speak, weary of lifeAnd of herself, form any plots against you?HIPPOLYTUSIt 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.THERAMENESWhat! You become her persecutor too!The gentle sister of the cruel sonsOf Pallas shared not in their perfidy;Why should you hate such charming innocence?HIPPOLYTUSI should not need to fly, if it were hatred.THERAMENESMay I, then, learn the meaning of your flight?Is this the proud Hippolytus I see,Than whom there breathed no fiercer foe to loveAnd to that yoke which Theseus has so oftEndured? And can it be that Venus, scorn'dSo long, will justify your sire at last?Has she, then, setting you with other mortals,Forced e'en Hippolytus to offer incenseBefore her? Can you love?HIPPOLYTUSFriend, ask me not.You, who have known my heart from infancyAnd all its feelings of disdainful pride,Spare me the shame of disavowing allThat I profess'd. Born of an Amazon,The wildness that you wonder at I suck'dWith 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 consolationTo 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 deceivedWhose very names have 'scaped his memory,Forsaken Ariadne to the rocksComplaining, last this Phaedra, bound to himBy better ties,—you know with what regretI heard and urged you to cut short the tale,Happy had I been able to eraseFrom my remembrance that unworthy partOf such a splendid record. I, in turn,Am I too made the slave of love, and broughtTo stoop so low? The more contemptibleThat no renown is mine such as exaltsThe name of Theseus, that no monsters quell'dHave 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 forgottenEternal barriers of separationBetween us? By my father's stern commandHer brethren's blood must ne'er be reinforcedBy sons of hers; he dreads a single shootFrom stock so guilty, and would fain with herBury their name, that, even to the tombContent to be his ward, for her no torchOf Hymen may be lit. Shall I espouseHer rights against my sire, rashly provokeHis wrath, and launch upon a mad career—THERAMENESThe 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 flameWithin you, lends his enemy new charms.And, after all, why should a guiltless passionAlarm 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 scornOf 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 pastYou have been seldom seen with wild delightUrging 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 castHas 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?HIPPOLYTUSTheramenes, I go to find my father.THERAMENESWill you not see the queen before you start,My prince?HIPPOLYTUSThat 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 IIHIPPOLYTUS, OENONE, THERAMENES
OENONEAlas, 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 maladySlays her, and all her senses are disorder'd.Weary yet restless from her couch she rises,Pants for the outer air, but bids me seeThat no one on her misery intrudes.She comes.HIPPOLYTUSEnough. She shall not be disturb'd,Nor be confronted with a face she hates.
SCENE IIIPHAEDRA, OENONE
PHAEDRAWe have gone far enough. Stay, dear Oenone;Strength fails me, and I needs must rest awhile.My eyes are dazzled with this glaring lightSo long unseen, my trembling knees refuseSupport. Ah me!OENONEWould Heaven that our tearsMight bring relief!PHAEDRAAh, how these cumbrous gauds,These veils oppress me! What officious handHas tied these knots, and gather'd o'er my browThese clustering coils? How all conspires to addTo my distress!OENONEWhat 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 lightOf day once more? You see it, and would fainBe hidden from the sunshine that you sought.PHAEDRAThou 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!OENONEWhat! Still are you in love with death?Shall I ne'er see you, reconciled to life,Forego these cruel accents of despair?PHAEDRAWould I were seated in the forest's shade!When may I follow with delighted eye,Thro' glorious dust flying in full career,A chariot—OENONEMadam?PHAEDRAHave I lost my senses?What said I? and where am I? Whither strayVain wishes? Ah! The gods have made me mad.I blush, Oenone, and confusion coversMy face, for I have let you see too clearlyThe shame of grief that, in my own despite,O'erflows these eyes of mine.OENONEIf 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'nsSince sleep has enter'd thro' your eyes, and thriceThe dawn has chased the darkness thence, since foodPass'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 meanHippolytus—PHAEDRAYe gods!OENONEAh, this reproachMoves you!PHAEDRAUnhappy woman, to what nameGave your mouth utterance?OENONEYour wrath is just.'Tis well that that ill-omen'd name can rouseSuch rage. Then live. Let love and duty urgeTheir 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 restoreYour shatter'd strength, while yet the torch of lifeHolds out, and can be fann'd into a flame.PHAEDRAToo long have I endured its guilt and shame!OENONEWhy? What remorse gnaws at your heart? What crimeCan have disturb'd you thus? Your hands are notPolluted with the blood of innocence?PHAEDRAThanks be to Heav'n, my hands are free from stain.Would that my soul were innocent as they!OENONEWhat awful project have you then conceived,Whereat your conscience should be still alarm'd?PHAEDRAHave I not said enough? Spare me the rest.I die to save myself a full confession.OENONEDie 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 chooseThe shortest. Cruel one, when has my faithDeceived you! Think how in my arms you layNew born. For you, my country and my childrenI have forsaken. Do you thus repayMy faithful service?PHAEDRAWhat do you expectFrom words so bitter? Were I to break silenceHorror would freeze your blood.OENONEWhat can you sayTo horrify me more than to beholdYou die before my eyes?PHAEDRAWhen you shall knowMy crime, my death will follow none the less,But with the added stain of guilt.OENONEDear Madam,By all the tears that I have shed for you,By these weak knees I clasp, relieve my mindFrom torturing doubt.PHAEDRAIt is your wish. Then rise.OENONEI hear you. Speak.PHAEDRAHeav'ns! How shall I begin?OENONEDismiss vain fears, you wound me with distrust.PHAEDRAO fatal animosity of Venus!Into what wild distractions did she castMy mother!OENONEBe they blotted from remembrance,And for all time to come buried in silence.PHAEDRAMy sister Ariadne, by what loveWere you betray'd to death, on lonely shoresForsaken!OENONEMadam, what deep-seated painPrompts these reproaches against all your kin?PHAEDRAIt is the will of Venus, and I perish,Last, most unhappy of a familyWhere all were wretched.OENONEDo you love?PHAEDRAI feelAll its mad fever.OENONEAh! For whom?PHAEDRAHear nowThe crowning horror. Yes, I love—my lipsTremble to say his name.OENONEWhom?PHAEDRAKnow you him,Son of the Amazon, whom I've oppress'dSo long?OENONEHippolytus? Great gods!PHAEDRA'Tis youHave named him.OENONEAll my blood within my veinsSeems frozen. O despair! O cursed race!Ill-omen'd journey! Land of misery!Why did we ever reach thy dangerous shores?PHAEDRAMy wound is not so recent. Scarcely had IBeen 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'dTo see him, and my soul grew all distraught;A mist obscured my vision, and my voiceFalter'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 racePursued. With fervent vows I sought to shunHer torments, built and deck'd for her a shrine,And there, 'mid countless victims did I seekThe 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 adoredHippolytus, 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 persecuteThe enemy I loved. To banish himI 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 absenceMy days flow'd on less troubled than before,And innocent. Submissive to my husband,I hid my grief, and of our fatal marriageCherish'd the fruits. Vain caution! Cruel Fate!Brought hither by my spouse himself, I sawAgain 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 withstandTears 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 deathThe last faint lingering sparks of vital breath.
SCENE IVPHAEDRA, OENONE, PANOPE
PANOPEFain 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.OENONEWhat say you, Panope?PANOPEThe queen, deceivedBy a vain trust in Heav'n, begs safe returnFor Theseus, while Hippolytus his sonLearns of his death from vessels that are nowIn port.PHAEDRAYe gods!PANOPEDivided counsels swayThe choice of Athens; some would have the prince,Your child, for master; others, disregardingThe laws, dare to support the stranger's son.'Tis even said that a presumptuous factionWould crown Aricia and the house of Pallas.I deem'd it right to warn you of this danger.Hippolytus already is preparedTo start, and should he show himself at Athens,'Tis to be fear'd the fickle crowd will allFollow his lead.OENONEEnough. The queen, who hears you,By no means will neglect this timely warning.
SCENE VPHAEDRA, OENONE
OENONEDear lady, I had almost ceased to urgeThe wish that you should live, thinking to followMy mistress to the tomb, from which my voiceHad fail'd to turn you; but this new misfortuneAlters the aspect of affairs, and promptsFresh 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 liveFor him, or else the tears of innocenceWill move the gods, his ancestors, to wrathAgainst his mother. Live, your guilt is gone,No blame attaches to your passion now.The King's decease has freed you from the bondsThat 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 hereHis portion lies; but as he knows, the lawsGive to your son the ramparts that MinervaBuilt and protects. A common enemyThreatens you both, unite them to opposeAricia.PHAEDRATo your counsel I consent.Yes, I will live, if life can be restored,If my affection for a son has pow'rTo rouse my sinking heart at such a dangerous hour.
SCENE IARICIA, ISMENE
ARICIAHippolytus request to see me here!Hippolytus desire to bid farewell!Is't true, Ismene? Are you not deceived?ISMENEThis is the first result of Theseus' death.Prepare yourself to see from every side.Hearts turn towards you that were kept awayBy Theseus. Mistress of her lot at last,Aricia soon shall find all Greece fall low,To do her homage.ARICIA'Tis not then, Ismene,An idle tale? Am I no more a slave?Have I no enemies?ISMENEThe gods opposeYour peace no longer, and the soul of TheseusIs with your brothers.ARICIADoes the voice of fameTell how he died?ISMENERumours incredibleAre 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 belowHe 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.ARICIAShall I believe that ere his destined hourA mortal may descend into the gulfOf Hades? What attraction could o'ercomeIts terrors?ISMENEHe is dead, and you aloneDoubt it. The men of Athens mourn his loss.Troezen already hails HippolytusAs King. And Phaedra, fearing for her son,Asks counsel of the friends who share her trouble,Here in this palace.ARICIAWill Hippolytus,Think you, prove kinder than his sire, make lightMy chains, and pity my misfortunes?ISMENEYes,I think so, Madam.ARICIAAh, you know him notOr you would never deem so hard a heartCan pity feel, or me alone exceptFrom the contempt in which he holds our sex.Has he not long avoided every spotWhere we resort?ISMENEI know what tales are toldOf proud Hippolytus, but I have seenHim near you, and have watch'd with curious eyeHow one esteem'd so cold would bear himself.Little did his behavior correspondWith what I look'd for; in his face confusionAppear'd at your first glance, he could not turnHis languid eyes away, but gazed on you.Love is a word that may offend his pride,But what the tongue disowns, looks can betray.ARICIAHow 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 survivedWar'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 bloodEarth drank with sorrow, near akin to hisWhom she herself produced. Since then, you knowHow thro' all Greece no heart has been allow'dTo sigh for me, lest by a sister's flameThe brothers' ashes be perchance rekindled.You know, besides, with what disdain I view'dMy conqueror's suspicions and precautions,And how, oppos'd as I have ever beenTo love, I often thank'd the King's injusticeWhich happily confirm'd my inclination.But then I never had beheld his son.Not that, attracted merely by the eye, Ilove 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 prideWhich ne'er has stoop'd beneath the amorous yoke.Phaedra reaps little glory from a loverSo lavish of his sighs; I am too proudTo share devotion with a thousand others,Or enter where the door is always open.But to make one who ne'er has stoop'd beforeBend 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 strengthThan this Hippolytus, for HerculesYielded so often to the eyes of beauty,As to make triumph cheap. But, dear Ismene,I take too little heed of oppositionBeyond my pow'r to quell, and you may hear me,Humbled by sore defeat, upbraid the prideI now admire. What! Can he love? and IHave had the happiness to bend—ISMENEHe comesYourself shall hear him.
SCENE IIHIPPOLYTUS, ARICIA, ISMENE
HIPPOLYTUSLady, ere I goMy duty bids me tell you of your changeOf fortune. My worst fears are realized;My sire is dead. Yes, his protracted absenceWas caused as I foreboded. Death alone,Ending his toils, could keep him from the worldConceal'd so long. The gods at last have doom'dAlcides' 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 soothesMy sorrow: I can free you from restraint.Lo, I revoke the laws whose rigour movedMy pity; you are at your own disposal,Both heart and hand; here, in my heritage,In Troezen, where my grandsire Pittheus reign'dOf yore and I am now acknowledged King,I leave you free, free as myself,—and more.ARICIAYour kindness is too great, 'tis overwhelming.Such generosity, that pays disgraceWith honour, lends more force than you can thinkTo those harsh laws from which you would release me.HIPPOLYTUSAthens, uncertain how to fill the throneOf Theseus, speaks of you, anon of me,And then of Phaedra's son.ARICIAOf me, my lord?HIPPOLYTUSI 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 enoughTo make me careless of the law's caprice.My forwardness is check'd by juster claims:To you I yield my place, or, rather, ownThat 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 bloodFatt'ning the furrows out of which it sprungAt first. I rule this Troezen; while the sonOf Phaedra has in Crete a rich domain.Athens is yours. I will do all I canTo join for you the votes divided nowBetween us.ARICIAStunn'd at all I hear, my lord,I fear, I almost fear a dream deceives me.Am I indeed awake? Can I believeSuch generosity? What god has put itInto your heart? Well is the fame deservedThat 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 harbouringThe enmity—HIPPOLYTUSTo 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 hatredWould not be mollified at sight of you?Could I resist the soul-bewitching charm—ARICIAWhy, what is this, Sir?HIPPOLYTUSI have said too muchNot to say more. Prudence in vain resistsThe violence of passion. I have brokenSilence at last, and I must tell you nowThe secret that my heart can hold no longer.You see before you an unhappy instanceOf hasty pride, a prince who claims compassionI, 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 rendsMy heart, I struggle vainly to be freeFrom you and from myself; I shun you, present;Absent, I find you near; I see your formIn the dark forest depths; the shades of night,Nor less broad daylight, bring back to my viewThe charms that I avoid; all things conspireTo make Hippolytus your slave. For fruitOf all my bootless sighs, I fail to findMy former self. My bow and javelinsPlease me no more, my chariot is forgotten,With all the Sea God's lessons; and the woodsEcho my groans instead of joyous shoutsUrging my fiery steeds.Hearing this taleOf passion so uncouth, you blush perchanceAt your own handiwork. With what wild wordsI offer you my heart, strange captive heldBy silken jess! But dearer in your eyesShould be the offering, that this language comesStrange to my lips; reject not vows express'dSo ill, which but for you had ne'er been form'd.