University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Enter Lycon solus.
Lyc.
This may gain Time till all my Wealth's embark'd,
To ward my Foes Revenge, and finish mine,
And shake that Empire which I can't possess.
But then the Queen—she dyes—why let her dye;
Let wide Destruction seize on all together,
So Lycon live.—A safe triumphant Exile,
Great in Disgrace, and envy'd in his Fall.
The Queen!—Then try thy Art and work her Passions,
Enter Phædra and Attendants.
Draw her to act what most her Soul abhors,
Possess her whole, and speak thy self in Phædra.

Phæd.
Off, let me loose; why cruel barb'rous Maids,
Why am I barr'd from Death, the common Refuge,
That spreads its hospitable Arms for all?
Why must I drag th'insufferable Load
Of foul Dishonour, and despairing Love?
Oh! length of Pain! Am I so often dying,
And yet not dead? Feel I so oft Death's Pangs?
Nor once can find its Ease?

Lyc.
Would you now dye?
Now quit the Field to your insulting Foe?
Then shall he triumph o'er your blasted Name:
Ages to come, the Universe shall learn
The wide Immortal Infamy of Phædra:
And the poor Babe, the Idol of your Soul,
The lovely Image of your dear dead Lord,
Shall be upbraided with his Mother's Crimes;
Shall bear your Shame, shall sink beneath your Faults;
Inherit your Disgrace, but not your Crown.

Phæd.
Must he too fall, involv'd in my Destruction,
And only live to curse the Name of Phædra?
Oh dear, unhappy Babe! must I bequeath thee
Only a sad Inheritance of Woe?
Gods! cruel Gods! can't all my Pains atone,
Unless they reach my Infant's guiltless Head?
Oh lost Estate! when Life's so sharp a Torment,
And Death it self can't ease! assist me, Lycon,
Advise, speak Comfort to my Troubled Soul.

Lyc.
'Tis you must drive that Trouble from your Soul;
As Streams when dam'd forget their ancient Currents,
And wond'ring at their Banks in other Channels flow;
So must you bend your Thoughts from hopeless Love,
So turn their Course to Theseus's happy Bosom,
And crown his eager Hopes with wish'd Enjoyment:
Then with fresh Charms adorn your troubl'd Looks,
Display the Beauties first inspir'd his Soul,
Sooth with your Voice, and wooe him with your Eyes.

Phæd.
Impossible! What wooe him with these Eyes
Still wet with Tears that flow'd?—But not for Theseus?
This Tongue so us'd to sound another Name?
What! take him to my Arms, oh awful Juno!
Touch, Love, Caress him! while my wand'ring Fancy
On other Objects strays? a lewd Adultress
In the chast Bed? and in the Father's Arms.
(Oh horrid Thought! oh execrable Incest!)
Ev'n in the Father's Arms embrace the Son?

Lyc.
Yet you must see him, least impatient Love
Shou'd urge his Temper to too nice a search,
And ill-tim'd Absence should disclose your Crime.

Phæd.
Cou'd I when present to his awful Eyes
Conceal the wild Disorders of my Soul?
Wou'd not my Groans, my Looks, my Speech betray me?
Betray thee, Phædra! then thou'rt not betray'd:
Live, live secure, adoring Crete conceals thee;
Thy pious Love, and most endearing Goodness
Will charm the kind Hippolitus to Silence.
Oh wretched Phædra! oh ill-guarded Secret!
To Foes alone disclos'd!

Lyc.
I needs must fear them,
Spight of their Oaths, their Vows, their Imprecations.

Phæd.
Do Imprecations, Oaths, or Vows avail?
I too have sworn, ev'n at the Altar sworn
Eternal Love and endless Faith to Theseus;
And yet am false, forsworn; the hallow'd Shrine,
That heard me swear, is Witness to my Falshood;
The Youth, the very Author of my Crimes,
Ev'n he shall tell the Fault himself inspir'd;
The fatal Eloquence that charm'd my Soul
Shall lavish all its Art to my Destruction.

Lyc.
Oh he will tell it all.—Destruction seize him.—
With seeming Grief, and aggravating Pity,
And more to blacken will excuse your Folly;
False Tears shall wet his unrelenting Eyes,
And his glad Heart with artful Sighs shall heave:
Then Theseus,—How will Indignation swell
His mighty Heart? how his majestick Frame
Will shake with Rage too fierce, too swift for vent?
How he'll expose you to the publick Scorn,
And loathing Crowds shall murmur out their Horror?
Then the fierce Scythian—Now methinks I see
His fiery Eyes with sullen Pleasures glow,
Survey your Tortures, and insult your Pangs;
I see him, smiling on the pleas'd Ismena,
Point out with Scorn the once proud Tyrant Phædra.

Phæd.
Curst be his Name! may Infamy attend him,
May swift Destruction fall upon his Head,
Hurl'd by the Hand of those he most adores.

Lyc.
By Heaven, prophetick Truth inspires your Tongue;
He shall endure the Shame he means to give;
And all the Torments which he heaps on you,
With just Revenge shall Theseus turn on him.

Phæd.
Is't possible? Oh Lycon! oh my Refuge!
Oh good old Man! thou Oracle of Wisdom,
Declare the means that Phædra may adore thee.

Lyc.
Accuse him first.

Phæd.
Oh Heavens! accuse the guiltless?

Lyc.
Then be accus'd; let Theseus know your Crime;
Let lasting Infamy o'erwhelm your Glory;
Let your Foe triumph, and your Infant fall—
Shake of this idle Lethargy of Pity,
With ready War prevent th'invading Foe,
Preserve your Glory, and secure your Vengeance:
Be yours the Fruit, Security, and Ease;
The Guilt, the Danger, and the labour mine.

Phæd.
Heav'ns, Theseus comes!

Enter Theseus.
Lyc.
Declare your last Resolves.

Phæd.
Do you resolve, for Phædra can do nothing.

[Exit Phædra
Lyc.
Now, Lycon, heighten his impatient Love,
Now raise his Pity, now enflame his Rage,
Quicken his Hopes, then quash 'em with Despair,
Work his tumultuous Passions into Frenzy;
Unite 'em all, then turn them on the Foe.

Thes.
Was that my Queen, my Wife, my Idol, Phædra?
Does she still shun me? Oh injurious Heav'n!
Why did you give me back again to Life?
Why did you save me from the Rage of Battle,
To let me fall by her more fatal Hatred?

Lyc.
Her hatred! no, she loves you with such Fondness,
As none but that of Theseus e'er could equal;
Yet so the Gods have doom'd, so Heav'n will have it,
She ne'er must view her much lov'd Theseus more.

Thes.
Not see her! by my Suff'rings but I will,
Tho' Troops embattl'd shou'd oppose my Passage,
And ready Death shou'd guard the fatal way.
Not see her! oh I'll clasp her in these Arms
Break thro' the idle Bands that yet have held me,
And seize the Joys my honest Love may claim.

Lyc.
Is this a time for Joy? when Phædra's Grief—

Thes.
Is this a time for Grief? Is this my welcome
To Air, to Life, to Liberty, and Crete?
Not this, I hop'd, when urg'd by ardent Love,
I wing'd my eager way to Phædra's Arms;
Then to my Thoughts relenting Phædra flew,
With open Arms to welcome my Return,
With kind endearing Blame condemn'd my Rashness,
And made me swear to venture out no more.
Oh my warm Soul! my boiling Fancy glow'd
With charming Hopes of yet untasted Joys;
New Pleasures fill'd my Mind, all Dangers, Pains,
Wars, Wounds, Defeats, in that dear Hope were lost.
And does she now avoid my eager Love,
Pursue me still with unrelenting Hatred,
Invent new Pains, detest, loath, shun my sight,
Fly my Return, and sorrow for my Safety?

Lyc.
Oh think not so! for by th'unerring Gods,
When first I told her of your wish'd Return,
When the lov'd Name of Theseus reach't her Ears,
At that dear Name she rear'd her drooping Head,
Her feeble Hands, and wat'ry Eyes to Heav'n,
To bless the bounteous Gods: At that dear Name
The raging Tempest of her Grief was calm'd;
Her Sighs were husht, and Tears forgot to flow.

Thes.
Did my Return bring Comfort to her Sorrow?
Then haste, conduct me to the lovely Mourner:
Oh I will kiss the pearly drops away;
Suck from her rosie Lips the fragrant Sighs;
With other Sighs her panting Breast shall heave,
With other Dews her swimming Eyes shall melt,
With other Pangs her throbbing Heart shall beat,
And all her Sorrows shall be lost in Love.

Lyc.
Does Theseus burn with such unheard of Passion?
And must not she with out-stretch'd Arms receive him?
And with an equal ardour meet his Vows?
The Vows of one so dear! Oh righteous Gods!
Why must the bleeding Heart of Theseus bear
Such tort'ring Pangs? while Phædra dead to Love,
Now with accusing Eyes on angry Heav'n
Stedfastly gazes, and upbraids the Gods;
Now with dumb piercing Grief, and humble Shame,
Fixes their gloomy watry Orbs to Earth;
Now burst with swelling Anguish, rends the Skies
With loud Complaints of her outragious Wrongs?

Thes.
Wrong'd! Is she wrong'd? And lives he yet that wrong'd her?

Lyc.
He lives, so great, so happy, so belov'd,
That Phædra scarce can hope, scarce wish Revenge.

Thes.
Shall Theseus live, and not revenge his Phædra?
Gods! shall this Arm, renown'd for righteous Vengeance,
For quelling Tyrants, and redressing Wrongs,
Now fail? now first, when Phædra's injur'd, fail?
Speak, Lycon, haste, declare the secret Villain,
The Wretch so meanly base to injure Phædra,
So rashly brave to dare the Sword of Theseus.

Lyc.
I dare not speak, but sure her Wrongs are mighty,
The pale cold hue that dead'ns all her Charms,
Her Sighs, her hollow Groans, her flowing Tears
Make me suspect her monst'rous Grief will end her.

Thes.
End her, end Theseus first, and all Mankind;
But most that Villain, that detested Slave,
That brutal Coward, that dark lurking Wretch.

Lyc.
Oh noble Heat of unexampl'd Love!
This Phædra hop'd when in the midst of Grief,
In the wild Torrent of o'erwhelming Sorrows,
She groaning still invok'd, still call'd on Theseus.

Thes.
Did she then name me, did the weeping Charmer
Invoke my Name, and call for Aid on Theseus?
Oh that lov'd Voice upbraided my Delay.
Why then this stay? I come, I fly, Oh Phædra!
Lead on—Now, dark Disturber of my Peace,
If now thou'rt known, what Luxury of Vengeance—
Haste, lead, conduct me.

Lyc.
Oh! I beg you stay.

Thes.
What! stay when Phædra calls?

Lyc.
Oh! on my Knees,
By all the Gods, my Lord, I beg you stay;
As you respect your Peace, your Life, your Glory:
As Phædra's Days are precious to your Soul;
By all your Love, by all her Sorrows stay.

Thes.
Where lies the Danger? Wherefore should I stay?

Lyc.
Your sudden Presence wou'd surprize her Soul,
Renew the galling Image of her Wrongs,
Revive her Sorrow, Indignation, Shame
And all your Son wou'd strike her from your Eyes.

Thes.
My Son.—But he's too good, too brave to wrong her.
—Whence then that shocking Change, that strong Surprize;
That Fright that seiz'd him at the Name of Phædra.

Lyc.
Was he surpriz'd that show'd at least Remorse?

Thes.
Remorse! for what? by Heav'ns my troubled Thoughts
Presage some dire Attempt.—Say what Remorse.

Lyc.
I wou'd not,—Yet I must.—This you command;
This Phædra orders; thrice her fault'ring Tongue
Bad me unfold the guilty Scene to Theseus:
Thrice with loud Cries recall'd me on my way,
And blam'd my Speed, and chid my rash Obedience;
Least the unwelcome Tale shou'd wound your Peace.
At last, with Looks serenely sad, she cry'd
Go tell it all; but in such artful Words,
Such tender Accents, and such melting Sounds
As may appease his Rage, and move his Pity;
As may incline him to forgive his Son
A grievous Fault, but still a Fault of Love.

Thes.
Of Love! what strange Suspicions wrack my Soul?
As you regard my Peace declare what Love.

Lyc.
So urg'd I must declare; yet, pitying Heav'n,
Why must I speak? why must unwilling Lycon
Accuse the Prince of impious Love to Phædra?

Thes.
Love to his Mother! to the Wife of Theseus.

Lyc.
Yes, at the Moment first he view'd her Eyes,
Ev'en at the Altar when you joyn'd your Hands,
His easie Heart receiv'd the guilty Flame,
And from that time he prest her with his Passion.

Thes.
Then 'twas for this she banish'd him from Crete.
I thought it Hatred all: Oh righteous Hatred!
Forgive me, Heav'n, forgive me, injur'd Phædra,
That I in Secret have condemn'd thy Justice.
Oh! 'twas all just, and Theseus shall revenge,
Ev'n on his Son, revenge his Phædra's Wrongs.

Lyc.
What easie Tools are these blunt honest Heroes,
Who with keen Hunger gorge the naked Hook,
Prevent the Bate the Statesman's Art prepares,
And post to Ruin.—Go, believing Fool,
Go act thy far fam'd Justice on thy Son,
Next on thy self, and both make way for Lycon.

[Aside.
Thes.
Ha! am I sure she's wrong'd? Perhaps 'tis Malice.
Slave, make it clear, make good your Accusation,
Or treble Fury shall revenge my Son.

Lyc.
Am I then doubted? and can faithful Lycon.
Be thought to forge such execrable Falshoods?
Gods! when the Queen unwillingly complains,
Can you suspect her Truth? Oh Godlike Theseus!
Is this the Love you bear unhappy Phædra?
Is this her hop'd for Aid? go wretched Matron
Sigh to the Winds, and rend th'unpitying Heavens
With thy vain Sorrows; since relentless Theseus,
Thy Hope, thy Refuge, Theseus, will not hear thee.

Thes.
Not hear my Phædra! not revenge her Wrongs!
Speak, make thy Proofs, and then his Doom's as fixt
As when Jove speaks, and high Olympus shakes,
And Fate his Voice obeys.

Lyc.
Bear Witness, Heav'n,
With what Reluctance I produce this Sword,
This fatal Proof against th'unhappy Prince,
Lest it shou'd work your Justice to his Ruin,
And prove he aim'd at Force, as well as Incest.

Thes.
Gods! 'tis Illusion all! Is this the Sword
By which Procrustes, Scyron, Pallas fell?
Is this the Weapon which my darling Son
Swore to employ in nought but Acts of Honour?
Now, faithful Youth, thou nobly hast fulfill'd
Thy gen'rous Promise. Oh most injur'd Phædra!
Why did I trust to his deceitful Form?
Why blame thy Justice, or suspect thy Truth?

Lyc.
Had you this Morn beheld his ardent Eyes,
Seen his Arm lockt in her dishevel'd Hair,
That Weapon glitt'ring o'er her trembling Bosom,
Whilst she with screams refus'd his impious Love,
Entreating Death, and rising to the Wound.
Oh! had you seen her when the frighted Youth
Retir'd at your Approach; had you then seen her,
In the chast Transports of becoming Fury,
Seize on the Sword to pierce her guiltless Bosom,
Had you seen this, you cou'd not doubt her Truth.

Thes.
Oh impious Monster! Oh forgive me Phædra!
And may the Gods inspire my injur'd Soul
With equal Vengeance that may suit his Crimes.

Lyc.
For Phædra's Sake forbear to talk of Vengeance;
That with new Pains wou'd wound her tender Breast:
Send him away from Crete, and by his Absence
Give Phædra Quiet; and afford him Mercy.

Thes.
Mercy! for what! Oh! well has he rewarded
Poor Phædra's Mercy.—Oh most barb'rous Traytor!
To wrong such Beauty, and insult such Goodness.
Mercy! what's that? A Vertue coin'd by Villains;
Who praise the Weakness which supports their Crimes.
Be mute, and fly, lest when my Rage is rous'd,
Thou for thy self in vain implore my Mercy.

Lyc.
Dull Fool, I laugh at Mercy more than thou dost,
More than I do the Justice thou'rt so fond of.
Now come, young Heroe, to thy Father's Arms,
Receive the due Reward of haughty Vertue;
Now boast thy Race, and laugh at Earth-born Lycon.

[Exit.
Enter Hippolitus.
Thes.
Yet can it be.—Is this th'incestuous Villain?
How great his Presence, how erect his Look,
How ev'ry Grace, how all his vertuous Mother
Shines in his Face, and charms me from his Eyes.
Oh Neptune! Oh, great Founder of our Race!
Why was he fram'd with such a Godlike Look?
Why wears he not some most detested Form,
Baleful to sight, as horrible to Thought,
That I might act my Justice without Grief,
Punish the Villain, nor regret the Son?

Hip.
May I presume to ask what secret Care
Broods in your Breast, and clouds your royal Brow?
Why dart your awful Eyes those angry Beams,
And fright Hippolitus, they us'd to chear.

Thes.
Answer me first; when call'd to wait on Phædra,
What sudden Fear surpriz'd your troubl'd Soul?
Why did your ebbing Blood forsake your Cheeks?
Why did you hasten from your Father's Arms
To shun the Queen your Duty bids you please?

Hip.
My Lord, to please the Queen I'm forc'd to shun her,
And keep this hated Object from her sight.

Thes.
Say what's the Cause of her invet'rate Hatred?

Hip.
My Lord, as yet I never gave her Cause.

Thes.
Oh were it so! [Aside.]
when last did you attend her?

Hip.
When last attend her—Oh unhappy Queen!
Your Error's known, yet I disdain to wrong you,
Or to betray a Fault my self have caus'd.
[Aside.
When last attend her?—

Thes.
Answer me directly;
Nor dare to trifle with your Father's Rage.

Hip.
My Lord, this very Morn I saw the Queen.

Thes.
What past?

Hip.
I ask'd Permission to retire.

Thes.
And was that all?

Hip.
My Lord, I humbly beg
With the most low Submissions, ask no more.

Thes.
Yet you don't answer with your low Submissions.
Answer, or never hope to see me more.

Hip.
Too much he knows, I fear, without my telling;
And the poor Queen's betray'd and lost for ever.

[Aside.
Thes.
He changes, Gods! and faulters at the Question:
His Fears, his Words, his Looks declare him guilty.

[Aside.
Hip.
Why do you frown, my Lord? why turn away,
As from some loathsome Monster, not your Son?

Thes.
Thou art that Monster, and no more my Son.
Not one of those of the most horrid Form,
Of which my Hand has eas'd the burthen'd Earth,
Was half so shocking to my Sight as thou.

Hip.
Where am I, Gods? Is that my Father Theseus?
Am I awake? Am I Hippolitus?

Thes.
Thou art that Fiend; thou art Hippolitus.
Thou art!—Oh fall! Oh fatal Stain to Honour!
How had my vain Imagination form'd thee?
Brave as Alcides, and as Minos just:
Sometimes it led me thro' the Maze of War;
There it survey'd thee ranging thro' the Field,
Mowing down Troops, and dealing out Destruction:
Sometimes with wholsom Laws reforming States,
Crowning their happy Joys with Peace and Plenty,
While you—

Hip.
With all my Father's Soul inspir'd,
Burnt with impatient Thirst of early Honour,
To hunt thro' bloody Fields the Chase of Glory,
And bless your Age with Trophies like your own.
Gods! how that warm'd me! how my throbbing Heart
Leapt to the Image of my Father's Joy!
When you shou'd strain me in your folding Arms,
And with kind Raptures, and with sobbing Joys
Commend my Valour, and confess your Son,
How did I think my glorious Toyl o'er paid?
Then great indeed, and in my Father's Love,
With more than Conquest crown'd? Go on, Hippolitus,
Go tread the rugged Paths of daring Honour;
Practice the strictest, and austerest Vertue,
And all the rigid Laws of righteous Minos;
Theseus, thy Father Theseus will reward thee.

Thes.
Reward thee—Yes, as Minos wou'd reward thee.
Was Minos then thy Pattern? and did Minos,
The Great, the Good, the Just, the Righteous Minos,
The Judge of Hell, and Oracle of Earth,
Did he inspire Adultery, Force, and Incest?

Ismena appears.
Ism.
Ha! what's this?

[Aside.
Hip.
Amazement! Incest—

Thes.
Incest with Phædra, with thy Mother Phædra,

Hip.
This Charge so unexpected, so amazing,
So new, so strange, impossible to Thought,
Stuns my astonish'd Soul, and tyes my Voice.

Thes.
Then let this wake thee, this once glorious Sword
With which thy Father arm'd thy Infant Hand,
Not for this Purpose. Oh abandon'd Slave!
Oh early Villain! most detested Coward!
With this my Instrument of youthful Glory!
With this,—Oh noble Entrance into Arms!
With this t'invade the spotless Phædra's Honour.
Phædra! my Life! my better half, my Queen:
That very Phædra, for whose just Defence
The Gods wou'd claim thy Sword.

Hip.
Amazement! Death!
Heav'ns! Durst I raise the far fam'd Sword of Theseus
Against his Queen, against my Mother's Bosom.

Thes.
If not, declare when, where, and how you lost it?
How Phædra gain'd it? Oh all the Gods! he's silent.
Why was it bar'd? whose Bosom was it aim'd at?
What meant thy Arm advanc'd, thy glowing Cheeks,
Thy Hand, Heart, Eyes? Oh Villain! monstrous Villain.

Hip.
Is there no Way, no Thought, no Beam of Light?
No clue to guide me thro' this gloomy Maze,
To clear my Honour, yet preserve my Faith?
None! none ye Pow'rs! and must I groan beneath
This execrable Load of foul Dishonour?
Must Theseus suffer such unheard of Torture!
Theseus my Father! no, I'll break thro' all;
All Oaths, all Vows, all idle Imprecations,
I give 'em to the Winds: Hear me, my Lord,
Hear your wrong'd Son. The Sword—Oh fatal Vow!
Ensnaring Oaths, and thou, rash thoughtless Fool,
To bind thy self in voluntary Chains;
Yet to thy fatal Trust continue firm:
Beneath Disgrace, tho' infamous yet honest.
Yet hear me, Father, may the righteous Gods
Show'r all their Curses on this wretched Head.
Oh may they doom me!—

Thes.
Yes, the Gods will doom thee.
The Sword, the Sword, now swear, and call to witness
Heav'n, Hell, and Earth, I mark it not from one
That breaths beneath such complicated Guilt.

Hip.
Was that like Guilt, when with expanded Arms
I sprang to meet you at your wish'd Return?
Does this appear like Guilt? when thus serene,
With Eyes erect, and Visage unappall'd,
Fixt on that awful Face, I stand the Charge;
Amaz'd, not fearing, say, if I am guilty,
Where are the conscious Looks, the Face now pale,
Now flushing red, the down-cast haggar'd Eyes,
Or sixt on Earth, or slowly rais'd to catch
A fearful view, then sunk again with Horror?

Thes.
This is for raw, untaught, unfinish'd Villains.
Thou in thy Bloom hast reach'd th'abhorr'd Perfection;
Thy even Looks cou'd wear a peaceful Calm:
The beauteous Stamp, (oh Heavens!) of faultless Vertue,
While thy foul Heart contriv'd this horrid Deed.
Oh harden'd Fiend, can't such transcending Crimes
Disturb thy Soul, or ruffle thy smooth Brow?
What no Remorse! no Qualms! no pricking Pangs!
No feeble Struggle of rebelling Honour!
O 'twas thy Joy! thy secret Hoard of Bliss,
To Dream, to Ponder, act it o'er in Thought;
To doat, to dwell on: as rejoycing Misers
Brood o'er their precious Stores of secret Gold.

Hip.
Must I not speak? Then say, unerring Heav'n,
Why was I born with such a Thirst of Glory?
Why did this Morning dawn to my Dishonour?
Why did not pitying Fate with ready Death
Prevent the Guilty Day?

Thes.
Guilty indeed.
Ev'n at the time you heard your Father's Death,
And such a Father (oh immortal Gods!)
As held thee dearer than his Life and Glory;
When thou shoud'st rend the Skies with clam'rous Grief,
Beat thy sad Breast, and tear thy starting Hair;
Then to my Bed to force your impious way,
With horrid Lust t'insult my yet warm Urn;
Make me the Scorn of Hell, and Sport for Fiends.
These are the Fun'ral Honours paid to Theseus,
These are the Sorrows, these the hallow'd Rites,
To which you'd call your Father's hov'ring Spirit.

Enter Ismena.
Ism.
Hear me, my Lord, e'er yet you fix his Doom.
[Turning to Theseus.
Hear one that comes to shield his injur'd Honour,
And guard his Life with Hazard of her own.

Thes.
Tho' thou'rt the Daughter of my hated Foe,
Tho' ev'n thy Beauty's loathsome to my Eyes,
Yet Justice bids me hear thee.

Ism.
Thus I thank you.
[Kneels.
Then know, mistaken Prince, his honest Soul
Cou'd ne'er be sway'd by impious Love to Phædra,
Since I before engag'd his early Vows,
With all my Wiles subdu'd his struggling Heart;
For long his Duty struggl'd with his Love.

Thes.
Speak, is this true? on thy Obedience speak.

Hip.
So charg'd, I own the dang'rous Truth; I own,
Against her Will, I lov'd the fair Ismena.

Thes.
Canst thou be only clear'd by Disobedience,
And justify'd by Crimes.—What! love my Foe!
Love one descended from a Race of Tyrants,
Whose Blood yet reaks on my avenging Sword.
I'm curst each Moment I delay thy Fate:
Haste to the Shades, and tell the happy Pallas
Ismena's Flames, and let him taste such Joys
As thou giv'st me; go tell applauding Minos
The pious Love you bore his Daughter Phædra;
Tell it the chat'ring Ghosts, and hissing Furies,
Tell it the grinning Fiends, till Hell sound nothing
To thy pleas'd Ears but Phædra and Ismena.
Enter Cratander.
Seize him, Cratander, take this guilty Sword,
Let his own Hand avenge the Crimes it acted,
And bid him die, at least, like Theseus Son,
Take him away, and execute my Orders.

Hip.
Heav'ns! how that strikes me! how it wounds my Soul!
To think of your unutterable Sorrows,
When you shall find Hippolitus was guiltless!
Yet when you know the Innocence you doom'd,
When you shall mourn your Son's unhappy Fate,
Oh I beseech you by the Love you bore me,
With my last Words, my Words will then prevail;
Oh for my Sake forbear to touch your Life,
Nor wound again Hippolitus in Theseus.
Let all my Vertues, all my Joys survive
Fresh in your Breast, but be my Woes forgot;
The Woes which Fate, and not my Father wrought.
Oh! let me dwell for ever in your Thoughts,
Let me be honour'd still, but not deplor'd.

Thes.
Then thy chief Care is for thy Father's Life.
Oh blooming Hipocrite! oh young Dissembler!
Well hast thou shown the Care thou tak'st of Theseus.
Oh all ye Gods! how this enflames my Fury!
I scarce can hold my Rage; my eager Hands
Tremble to reach thee. No, dishonour'd Theseus,
Blot not thy Fame with such a Monster's Blood.
Snatch him away.

Hip.
Lead on. Farewel, Ismena.

Ism.
Oh! take me with him, let me share his Fate.
Oh awful Theseus! yet revoke his Doom:
See, see the very Ministers of Death,
Tho' bred to Blood, yet shrink, and wish to save him.

Thes.
Slaves, Villains, tear her from him, cut her Arms off.

Ism.
Oh! tear me, cut me, till my sever'd Limbs
Grow to my Lord, and share the Pains he suffers.

Thes.
Villains, away.

Ism.
O Theseus! hear me, hear me.

Thes.
Away, nor taint me with thy loathsome Touch.
Off, Woman.

Ism.