University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Enter Phædra and Lycon.
Lyc.
Accuse your self! Oh! on my Knees I beg you,
By all the Gods, recal the fatal Message.
Heav'ns! will you stand the dreaded Rage of Theseus?
And brand your Fame, and work your own Destruction.

Phæd.
By thee I'm branded, and by thee destroy'd;
Thou Bosom Serpent, thou alluring Fiend:
Yet shan't you boast the Miseries you cause,
Nor scape the Ruin you have brought on all.

Lyc.
Was it not your Command? Has faithful Lycon
E'er spoke, e'er thought, design'd, contriv'd, or acted?
Has he done ought without the Queen's Consent?

Phæd.
Plead'st thou Consent to what thou first inspir'dst?
Was that Consent? O senseless Politician!
When adverse Passions struggl'd in my Breast,
When Anger, Fear, Love, Sorrow, Guilt, Despair
Drove out my Reason, and usurp'd my Soul.
Yet this Consent you plead, O faithful Lycon!
Oh! only zealous for the Fame of Phædra!
With this you blot my Name, and clear your own;
And what's my Frenzy, will be call'd my Crime:
What then is thine? thou cool deliberate Villain,
Thou wise fore-thinking, weighing Politician.

Lyc.
Oh! 'twas so black my frighten'd Tongue recoil'd
At its own sound, and Horrour shook my Soul.
Yet still, tho' pierc'd with such amazing Anguish,
Such was my Zeal, so much I lov'd my Queen,
I broke through all to save the Life of Phædra.

Phæd.
What's Life? Oh all ye Gods! can Life atone
For all the monstrous Crimes by which 'tis bought?
Or can I live? when thou, oh Soul of Honour!
Oh early Heroe! by my Crimes art ruin'd.
Perhaps ev'n now the great unhappy Youth
Falls by the sordid Hands of Butchering Villains;
Now, now he bleeds, he dies—Oh perjur'd Traytor!
See his rich Blood in Purple Torrents flows,
And Nature sallies in unbidden Groans;
Now mortal Pangs distort his lovely Form,
His Rosie Beauties fade, his Starry Eyes
Now darkling swim, and fix their closing Beams,
Now in short Gasps his lab'ring Spirit heaves,
And weakly flutters on his fault'ring Tongue,
And struggles into Sound. Hear, Monster, hear
With his last Breath he curses perjur'd Phædra:
He summons Phædra to the Bar of Minos;
Thou too shalt there appear; to torture thee
Whole Hell shall be employ'd, and suff'ring Phædra
Shall find some Ease to see thee still more wretched.

Lyc.
Oh all ye Powers! Oh Phædra! hear me, hear me,
By all my Zeal, by all my anxious Cares,
By those unhappy Crimes I wrought to serve you,
By these old wither'd Limbs, and hoary Hairs,
By all my Tears,—Oh Heav'ns! she minds me not,
She hears not my Complaints. Oh wretched Lycon!
To what art thou reserv'd?

Phæd.
Reserv'd to all
The sharpest, slowest Pains that Earth can furnish,
To all I wish—on Phædra—Guards secure him.
Lycon carried off.
Ha! Theseus, Gods! my freezing Blood congeals,
And all my Thoughts, Designs, and Words are lost.

Enter Theseus.
Thes.
Dost thou at last repent? Oh lovely Phædra!
At last with equal Ardour meet my Vows:
O dear bought Blessing! yet I'll not complain,
Since now my sharpest Grief is all o'erpaid,
And only heightens Joy.—Then haste, my Charmer,
Let's feast our famish'd Souls with amorous Riot,
With fiercest Bliss atone for our Delay,
And in a Moment love the Age we've lost.

Phæd.
Stand off, approach me, touch me not; fly hence,
Far as the distant Skies or deepest Center.

Thes.
Amazement! Death! ye Gods that guide the World,
What can this mean? so fierce a Detestation,
So strong Abhorrence—Speak, exquisite Tormentor!
Was it for this your Summons fill'd my Soul
With eager Raptures, and tumultuous Transports?
Ev'n painful Joys, and Agonies of Bliss.
Did I for this obey my Phædra's call,
And fly with trembling haste to meet her Arms?
And am I thus receiv'd? O cruel Phædra!
Was it for this you rouz'd my drouzie Soul
From the dull Lethargy of hopeless Love?
And dost thou only show those beauteous Eyes
To wake Despair, and blast me with their Beams?

Phæd.
Oh! were that all to which the Gods have doom'd me,
But angry Heav'n has laid in Store for Theseus
Such perfect Mischief, such transcendent Woe,
That the black Image shocks my frighted Soul,
And the Words dye on my reluctant Tongue.

Thes.
Fear not to speak it; that harmonious Voice
Will make the saddest Tale of Sorrow pleasing,
And charm the Grief it brings.—Thus let me hear it,
Thus in thy Sight, thus gazing on those Eyes,
I can support the utmost Spite of Fate,
And stand the Rage of Heav'n.—Approach, my Fair—

Phæd.
Off, or I fly for ever from thy sight:
Shall I embrace the Father of Hippolitus?

Thes.
Forget the Villain, drive him from your Soul.

Phæd.
Can I forget? Can I drive from my Soul?
Oh! he will still be present to my Eyes;
His Words will ever echo in my Ears;
Still will he be the Torture of my Days,
Bane of my Life, and Ruin of my Glory.

Thes.
And mine and all—Oh most abandon'd Villain!
Oh lasting Scandal to our Godlike Race!
That cou'd contrive a Crime so foul as Incest.

Phæd.
Incest! Oh name it not!—
The very mention shakes my inmost Soul:
The Gods are startled in their peaceful Mansions,
And Nature sickens at the shocking Sound:
Thou brutal Wretch! thou execrable Monster!
To break thro' all the Laws that early flow
From untaught Reason, and distinguish Man;
Mix like the senseless Herd with bestial Lust,
Mother and Son preposterously wicked;
To banish from thy Soul the Reverence due
To Honour, Nature, and the genial Bed,
And injure one so great, so good as Theseus.

Thes.
To injure one so great, so good as Phædra;
Oh Slave! to wrong such Purity as thine,
Such dazling Brightness, such exalted Vertue.

Phæd.
Vertue! all-seeing Gods, you know my Vertue.
Must I support all this? O righteous Heav'n!
Can't I yet speak? Reproach I could have born,
Pointed his Satyrs, Stings, and edg'd his Rage,
But to be prais'd—Now, Minos, I defy thee;
Ev'n all thy dreadful Magazines of Pains,
Stones, Furies, Wheels are slight to what I suffer,
And Hell it self's Relief.

Thes.
What's Hell to thee?
What Crimes couldst thou commit? or what Reproaches
Cou'd Innocence so pure as Phædra's Fear.
O thou'rt the chastest Matron of thy Sex,
The fairest Pattern of excelling Vertue;
Our latest Annals shall record thy Glory.
The Maids Example, and the Matron's Theme,
Each skilful Artist shall express thy Form,
In animated Gold—The threatning Sword
Shall hang for ever o'er thy snowy Bosom;
Such Heav'nly Beauty on thy Face shall bloom,
As shall almost excuse the Villain's Crime;
But yet that Firmness, that unshaken Vertue,
As still shall make the Monster more detested.
Where e'er you pass, the crouded way shall sound
With joyful Cryes, and endless Acclamations:
And when aspiring Bards, in daring strains
Shall raise some Heav'nly Matron to the Pow'rs,
They'll say she's Great, she's True, she's Chast as Phædra.

Phæd.
This might have been.—But now, oh cruel Stars!
Now, as I pass, the crouded way shall sound
With hissing Scorn, and murm'ring Detestation:
The latest Annals shall record my Shame;
And when th'avenging Muse with pointed Rage
Wou'd sink some impious Woman down to Hell,
She'll say she's False, she's Base, she's Foul as Phædra.

Thes.
Hadst thou been foul, had horrid Violation
Cast any Stains on Purity like thine,
They're wash'd already in the Villain's Blood;
The very Sword, his Instrument of Horror,
E're this time drench'd in his incestuous Heart,
Has done thee Justice, and aveng'd the Crimes
He us'd it to perform.

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
Alas! my Lord,
E're this the Prince is dead.—I saw Cratander
Give him a Sword—I saw him boldly take it,
Rear it on high, and point it to his Breast;
With steady Hands, and with disdainful Looks,
As one that fear'd not Death, but scorn'd to dye,
And not in Battle.—A loud Clamour follow'd:
And all surrounding Soldiers hid from my Sight,
But all pronouuc'd him Dead.

Phæd.
Is he then Dead?

Thes.
Yes, yes, he's dead, and dead by my Command;
And in this dreadful Act of mournful Justice,
I'm more renown'd than in my dear bought Lawrels.

Phæd.
Then thou'rt renown'd indeed.—Oh happy Theseus!
Oh! only worthy of the Love of Phædra!
Haste then, let's joyn our well-met Hands together;
Unite for ever, and defie the Gods
To shew a pair so eminently wretched.

Thes.
Wretched! for what? for what the World must praise me.
For what the Nations shall adore my Justice,
A Villain's Death?

Phæd.
Hippolitus a Villain!
Oh! he was all his Godlike Sire cou'd wish,
The Pride of Theseus, and the Hopes of Crete.
Nor did the bravest of his Godlike Race
Tread with such early Hopes the Paths of Honour.

Thes.
What can this mean? Declare, ambiguous Phædra;
Say whence these shifting Gusts of clashing Rage?
Why are thy doubtful Speeches dark and troubl'd,
As Cretan Seas when vext by warring Winds?
Why is a Villain, with alternate Passion,
Accus'd and prais'd, detested and deplor'd?

Phæd.
Canst thou not guess?—
Canst thou not read it in my furious Passions?
In all the wild Disorders of my Soul?
Cou'dst thou not see it in the noble warmth
That urg'd the daring Youth to Acts of Honour?
Cou'dst thou not find it in the gen'rous Truth,
Which sparkl'd in his Eyes, and open'd in his Face?
Cou'dst not perceive it in the chast Reserve?
In every Word and Look, each Godlike Act,
Cou'dst thou not see Hippolitus was guiltless?

Thes.
Guiltless! Oh all ye Gods! what can this mean?

Phæd.
Mean! that the Guilt is mine, that vertuous Phædra,
The Maids Example, and the Matron's Theme
With bestial Passion woo'd your loathing Son.
And when deny'd—With impious Accusation
Sully'd the Lustre of his shining Honour;
Of my own Crimes accus'd the Faultless Youth,
And with ensnaring Wiles destroy'd that Vertue
I try'd in vain to shake.

Thes.
Is he then guiltless?
Guiltless! Then what art thou? and oh just Heav'n!
What a detested Parricide is Theseus?

Phæd.
What am I? what indeed! but one more black
Than Earth, or Hell e'er bore. O horrid Mixture
Of Crimes, and Woes, of Parricide, and Incest,
Perjury, Murther; to arm the erring Father
Against the guiltless Son. O impious Lycon!
In what a Hell of Woes thy Arts have plung'd me.

Thes.
Lycon! Here, Guards,—Oh most abandon'd Villain!
Secure him, seize him, drag him Piece-Meal hither.

Enter Guards.
Guards.
Who has, my Lord, incurr'd your high Displeasure?

Thes.
Who can it be, ye Gods, but perjur'd Lycon?
Who can inspire such Storms of Rage, but Lycon?
Where has my Sword left one so black, but Lycon?
Where! wretched Theseus! in thy Bed and Heart,
The very darling of my Soul and Eyes;
Oh beauteous Fiend! but trust not to thy Form.
You too, my Son, was fair, your manly Beauties
Charm'd every Heart (O Heavens!) To your Destruction.
You too were good, your vertuous Soul abhorr'd
The Crimes for which you dy'd. Oh impious Phædra!
Incestuous Fury! Execrable Murtheress!
Is there Revenge on Earth, or Pain in Hell,
Can Art invent, or boiling Rage suggest,
Ev'n endless Torture which thou shalt not suffer?

Phæd.
And is there ought on Earth I wou'd not suffer?
O! were there Vengeance equal to my Crimes,
Thou needst not claim it, most unhappy Youth,
From any Hands but mine: T'avenge thy Fate
I'd court the fiercest Pains, and sue for Tortures;
And Phædra's Suff'rings shou'd atone for thine:
Ev'n now I fall a Victim to thy Wrongs;
Ev'n now a fatal Draught works out my Soul,
Ev'n now it curdles in my shrinking Veins
The lazy Blood, and freezes at my Heart.

Lycon brought in.
Thes.
Hast thou escap'd my Wrath? yet, impious Lycon,
On thee I'll empty all my hoard of Vengeance,
And glut my boundless Rage.

Lyc.
O! Mercy, Mercy.

Thes.
Such thou shalt find as thy best Deeds deserve,
Such as thy guilty Soul can hope from Theseus;
Such as thou shew'dst to poor Hippolitus.

Lyc.
Oh chain me! whip me! let me be the Scorn
Of sordid Rabbles, and insulting Crowds,
Give me but Life, and make that Life most wretched.

Phæd.
Art thou so base, so spiritless a Slave?
Not so the lovely Youth thy Arts have ruin'd,
Not so he bore the Fate to which you doom'd him.

Thes.
Oh abject Villain! yet it gives me Joy
To see the Fears that shake thy guilty Soul,
Enhance thy Crimes, and antedate thy Woes;
O! how thou'lt howl thy fearful Soul away;
While laughing Crowds shall echo to thy Cries,
And make thy Pains their Sport. Haste hence, away with him,
Drag him to all the Torments Earth can furnish,
Let him be wrackt and gancht, impal'd alive;
Then let the mangl'd Monster, fixt on high,
Grin o'er the shouting Crowd, and glut their Vengeance.
And is this all? and art thou now appeas'd?
Will this atone for poor Hippolitus?
Oh ungorg'd Appetite! Oh rav'nous Thirst
Of a Son's Blood! What not a Day, a Moment!

Phæd.
A Day! a Moment! oh! thou should'st have staid
Years, Ages, all the round of circling Time,
E'er touch'd the Life of that consummat Youth.

Thes.
And yet with Joy I flew to his Destruction,
Boasted his Fate, and triumph'd in his Ruin.
Not this I promis'd to his dying Mother,
When in her mortal Pangs she sighing gave me
The last cold Kisses from her trembling Lips,
And reach'd her feeble wand'ring Hands to mine,
When her last Breath now quiv'ring at her Mouth,
Implor'd my Goodness to her lovely Son;
To her Hipploitus. He, alas! descends
An early Victim to the lazy Shades,
(Oh Heav'n and Earth!) by Theseus doom'd, descends.

Phæd.
He's doom'd by Theseus, but accus'd by Phædra,
By Phædra's Madness, and by Lycon's Hatred.
Yet with my Life I expiate my Frenzy,
And dye for thee, my Headlong Rage destroy'd:
Thee I pursue, (oh great ill-fated Youth!)
Pursue thee still, but now with chast Desires;
Thee thro' the dismal waste of gloomy Death;
Thee thro' th'glimm'ring Dawn, and purer Day,
Thro' all th'Elysian Plains: O righteous Minos!
Elysian Plains! There he and his Ismena
Shall sport for ever, shall for ever drink
Immortal Love; while I far off shall howl
In lonely Plains; while all the blackest Ghosts
Shrink from the baleful sight of one more monstrous,
And more accurst than they.

Thes.
I too must go;
I too must once more see the burning Shoar
Of livid Acheron and black Cocytus,
Whence no Alcides will release me now.

Phæd.
Then why this stay? come on, let's plunge together:
See Hell sets wide its Adamantine Gates,
See thro' the sable Gates the black Cocytus
In smoaky Circles rowls its fiery Waves:
Hear, hear the stunning Harmonies of Woe,
The din of ratt'ling Chains, of clashing Whips,
Of Groans, of loud Complaints, of piercing Shrieks,
That wide thro' all its gloomy World resound.
How huge Mægara stalks! what streaming Fires
Blaze from her glareing Eyes! what Serpents curl
In horrid Wreaths, and hiss around her Head!
Now, now she drags me to the Bar of Minos.
See how the awful Judges of the Dead
Look stedfast hate, and horrible dismay!
See Minos turns away his loathing Eyes,
Rage choaks his struggling Words: The fatal Urn
Drops from his trembling Hand: O all ye Gods!
What, Lycon here! Oh execrable Villain!
Then am I still on Earth? By Hell I am,
A Fury now, a Scourge preserv'd for Lycon;
See the just Beings offer to my Vengeance
That impious Slave. Now, Lycon, for Revenge;
Thanks, Heav'n, 'tis here.—I'll steal it to his Heart,

[Mistaking Theseus for Lycon, offers to stab him.]
Guards.
Heav'ns! 'tis your Lord.

Phæd.
My Lord! O equal Heav'n!
Must each portentous Moment rise in Crimes,
And sallying Life go off in Parricide?
Then trust not thy slow Drugs. Thus sure of Death
[Stabs her self.
Compleat thy Horrors.—And if this suffice not,
Thou, Minos, do the rest.

Thes.
At length she's quiet,
And Earth now bears not such a Wretch as Theseus;
Yet I'll obey Hippolitus, and live:
Then to the Wars; and as the Corybantines,
With clashing Shields, and braying Trumpets drown'd
The Cryes of Infant-Jove.—I'll stifle Conscience,
And Nature's Murmurs in the din of Arms.
But what are Arms to me? Is he not dead
For whom I fought? for whom my hoary Age
Glow'd with the boiling Heat of Youth in Battle?
How then to drag a wretched Life beneath,
An endless round of still returning Woes,
And all the gnawing Pangs of vain Remorse.
What Torment's this?—Therefore, O greatly thought!
Therefore do Justice on thy self—and live;
Live above all most infinitely wretched.
Ismena too—Nay, then avenging Heav'n
Ismena Enters.
Has vented all its Rage.—O wretched Maid!
Why dost thou come to swell my raging Grief?
Why add to Sorrows, and embitter'd Woes?
Why do thy mournful Eyes upbraid my Guilt?
Why thus recal to my afflicted Soul
The sad Remembrance of my God-like Son,
Of that dear Youth my Cruelty has ruin'd?

Ism.
Ruin'd!—O all ye Powers! O awful Theseus!
Say, where's my Lord? say, where has Fate dispos'd him?
Oh speak! the Fear distracts me.

Thes.
Gods! Can I speak?
Can I declare his Fate to his Ismena?
Oh lovely Maid! Cou'dst thou admit of Comfort,
Thou shou'dst for ever be my only Care,
Work of my Life, and Labour of my Soul.
For thee alone, my Sorrows lull'd, shall cease;
Cease for a while to mourn my murther'd Son:
For thee alone my Sword once more shall rage,
Restore the Crown of which it robb'd your Race:
Then let your Grief give way to Thoughts of Empire;
At thy own Athens reign. The happy Crowd
Beneath thy easie Yoke with Pleasure bow,
And think in thee their own Minerva reigns.

Ism.
Must I then reign? nay, must I live without him?
Not so, oh Godlike Youth! you lov'd Ismena;
You, for her sake, refus'd the Cretan Empire,
And yet a nobler Gift, the Royal Phædra.
Shall I then take a Crown, a guilty Crown,
From the relentless Hand that doom'd thy Death?
Oh! 'tis in Death alone I can have Ease,
And thus I find it.

[Offers to stab her self.
Enter Hippolitus.
Hip.
O forbear Ismena!
Forbear, chast Maid, to wound thy tender Bosom;
Oh Heav'n and Earth! shou'd she resolve to die,
And snatch all Beauty from the widdow'd Earth?
Was it for me, ye Gods, she'd fall a Victim?
Was it for me she'd dye? O heav'nly Virgin!
See, see thy own Hippolitus, who lives,
And hopes to live for thee.

Ism.
Hippolitus!
Am I alive or dead? Is this Elysium?
'Tis he, 'tis all Hippolitus—Ar't well?
Ar't thou not wounded?

Thes.
Oh unhop'd for Joy!
Stand off, and let me fly into his Arms.
Speak, say what God, what Miracle preserv'd thee?
Did'st thou not strike thy Father's cruel Present,
My Sword, into thy Breast?

Hip.
I aim'd it there,
But turn'd it from my self, and slew Cratander;
The Guards, not trusted with his fatal Orders,
Granted my Wish, and brought me to the King:
I fear'd not Death, but cou'd not bear the Thought
Of Theseus Sorrow, and Ismena's Loss;
Therefore I hasten'd to your Royal Presence,
Here to receive my Doom.

Thes.
Be this thy Doom,
To live for ever in Ismena's Arms.
Go, heav'nly Pair, and with your daz'ling Vertues,
Your Courage, Truth, your Innocence and Love,
Amaze and charm Mankind; and rule that Empire,
For which in vain your Rival Fathers fought.

Ism.
Oh killing Joy!

Hip.
Oh Extasie of Bliss!
Am I possess'd at last of my Ismena?
Of that Cœlestial Maid, oh pitying Gods!
How shall I thank your Bounties for my Suff'rings,
For all my Pains, and all the Pangs I've born?
Since 'twas to them I owe divine Ismena,
To them I owe the dear Consent of Theseus,
Yet there's a Pain lies heavy on my Heart,
For the disastrous Fate of hapless Phædra.

Thes.
Deep was her Anguish, for the Wrongs she did you
She chose to dye, and in her Death deplor'd
Your Fate, and not her own.

Hip.
I've heard it all.
O! had not Passion sully'd her Renown,
None e'er on Earth had shone with equal Lustre;
So glorious liv'd, or so lamented dy'd.
Her Faults were only Faults of raging Love,
Her Vertues all her own.

Ism.
Unhappy Phædra!
Was there no other Way, ye pitying Pow'rs,
No other Way to crown Ismena's Love?
Then must I ever mourn her cruel Fate,
And in the midst of my triumphant Joy,
Ev'n in my Hero's Arms confess some Sorrow.

Thes.
O tender Maid! forbear with ill-tim'd Grief,
To damp our Blessings, and incense the Gods;
But let's away, and pay kind Heav'n our Thanks
For all the Wonders in our Favour wrought;
That Heav'n, whose Mercy rescu'd erring Theseus
From execrable Crimes, and endless Woes.
Then learn from me, ye Kings that rule the World,
With equal poize, let steddy Justice sway,
And flagrant Crimes with certain Vengeance pay,
But till the Proofs are clear the Stroak delay.

Hip.
The righteous Gods that Innocence require,
Protect the Goodness which themselves inspire;
Unguarded Vertue human Arts desies,
Th'Accus'd is happy, while th'Accuser dyes.

[Exeunt omnes.