ARICIA

          Hippolytus request to see me here!

          Hippolytus desire to bid farewell!

          Is't true, Ismene? Are you not deceived?

          ISMENE

          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.

          ARICIA

          'Tis not then, Ismene,

          An idle tale? Am I no more a slave?

          Have I no enemies?

          ISMENE

          The gods oppose

          Your peace no longer, and the soul of Theseus

          Is with your brothers.

          ARICIA

          Does the voice of fame

          Tell how he died?

          ISMENE

          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.

          ARICIA

          Shall I believe that ere his destined hour

          A mortal may descend into the gulf

          Of Hades? What attraction could o'ercome

          Its terrors?

          ISMENE

          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.

          ARICIA

          Will Hippolytus,

          Think you, prove kinder than his sire, make light

          My chains, and pity my misfortunes?

          ISMENE

          Yes,

          I think so, Madam.

          ARICIA

          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?

          ISMENE

          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.

          ARICIA

          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—

          ISMENE

          He comes

          Yourself shall hear him.

          SCENE II

          HIPPOLYTUS, ARICIA, ISMENE

          HIPPOLYTUS

          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.

          ARICIA

          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.

          HIPPOLYTUS

          Athens, uncertain how to fill the throne

          Of Theseus, speaks of you, anon of me,

          And then of Phaedra's son.

          ARICIA

          Of me, my lord?

          HIPPOLYTUS

          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.

          ARICIA

          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—

          HIPPOLYTUS

          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—

          ARICIA

          Why, what is this, Sir?

          HIPPOLYTUS

          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.