University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Enter Cratander and Lycon.
Lyc.
'Tis strange, Cratander, that the Royal Phædra
Shou'd still continue resolute in Grief,
And obstinately wretched:
That one so gay, so beautiful and young,
Of Godlike Virtue and Imperial Pow'r,
Shou'd fly inviting Joys and court Destruction.

Crat.
Is there not cause, when lately join'd in Marriage,
To have the King her Husband call'd to War?
Then for three tedious Moons to mourn his Absence,
Nor know his Fate?

Lyc.
The King may cause her Sorrow,
But not by Absence: Oft I've seen him hang
With greedy Eyes, and languish o'er her Beauties,
She from his wide, deceiv'd, desiring Arms
Flew tastless, loathing; whilst dejected Theseus,
With mournful loving Eyes pursu'd her Flight,
And dropt a silent Tear.

Crat.
Ha! this is Hatred,
This is Aversion, Horror, Detestation,
Why did the Queen who might have cull'd Mankind,
Why did she give her Person and her Throne
To one she loath'd?

Lyc.
Perhaps she thought it just
That he shou'd wear the Crown his Valour sav'd.

Crat.
Cou'd she not glut his Hopes with Wealth and Honour,
Reward his Valour, yet reject his Love?
Why, when a happy Mother, Queen, and Widow;
Why did she wed old Theseus? While his Son,
The brave Hippolitus, with equal Youth,
And equal Beauty might have fill'd her Arms.

Lyc.
Hippolitus, (in distant Scythia born,
The warlike Amazon, Camilla's Son,)
'Till our Queen's Marriage, was unknown to Crete;
And sure the Queen cou'd wish him still unknown:
She loaths, detests him, flys his hated Presence,
And shrinks and trembles at his very Name.

Crat.
Well may she hate the Prince she needs must fear;
He may dispute the Crown with Phædra's Son.
He's brave, he's fiery, youthful and belov'd;
His Courage charms the Men, his Form the Women;
His very Sports are War.

Lyc.
O! he's all Hero, scorns th'inglorious Ease
Of lazy Crete, delights to shine in Arms,
To wield the Sword, and launch the pointed Spear;
To tame the gen'rous Horse, that nobly wild
Neighs on the Hills, and dares the angry Lion;
To join the struggling Coursers to his Chariot,
To make their stubborn Necks the Rein obey,
To turn, to stop, or stretch along the Plain.
Now the Queen's sick there's Danger in his Courage,
Be ready with your Guards, I fear Hippolitus.
[Exit. Crat.
Fear him! for what? poor silly virtuous Wretch,
Affecting Glory and contemning Pow'r:
Warm without Pride, without Ambition brave;
A senseless Hero, fit to be a Tool
To those whose Godlike Souls are turn'd for Empire.
An open honest Fool, that loves and hates,
And yet more Fool to own it. He hates Flatterers,
He hates me too; weak Boy, to make a Foe
Where he might have a Slave. I hate too,
But cringe, and slatter, fawn, adore, yet hate him.
Let the Queen live or dye the Prince must fall.
Enter Ismena.
What! still attending on the Queen, Ismena?
O charming Virgin! O exalted Virtue!
Can still your Goodness conquer all your Wrongs?
Are you not robb'd of your Athenian Crown?
Was not your Royal Father Pallas slain,
And all his wretched Race by conqu'ring Theseus?
And do you still watch o'er his Consort Phædra,
And still repay such Cruelty with Love?

Ism.
Let them be cruel that delight in Mischief,
I'm of a softer Mould, poor Phædra's Sorrows
Pierce thro' my yielding Heart and wound my Soul.

Lyc.
Now thrice the rising Sun has chear'd the World
Since she renew'd her Strength with due Refreshment;
Thrice has the Night brought Ease to Man, to Beast,
Since wretched Phædra clos'd her streaming Eyes:
She flies all Rest, all necessary Food,
Resolv'd to die, nor capable to live.

Ism.
But now her Grief has wrought her into Frenzy;
The Images her troubl'd Fancy forms
Are incoherent, wild; her Words disjointed:
Sometimes she raves for Musick, Light and Air,
Nor Air, nor Light, nor Musick calm her Pains;
Then with extatick Strength she springs aloft,
And moves and bounds with Vigour not her own.

Lyc.
Then Life is on the Wing, then most she sinks
When most she seems reviv'd. Like boiling Water
That foams and hisses o'er the crackling Wood,
And bubbles to the brim; ev'n then most wasting
When most it swells.

Ism.
My Lord, now try your Art,
Her wild Disorder may disclose the Secret
Her cooler Sense conceal'd; the Pythian Goddess
Is dumb and sullen, till with Fury fill'd
She spreads, she rises, growing to the sight,
She stares, she foams, she raves, the awful Secrets
Burst from her trembling Lips, and ease the tortur'd Maid.
But Phædra comes, ye Gods, how pale, how weak!

Enter Phædra and Attendants.
Phæd.
Stay, Virgins, stay, I'll rest my weary Steps;
My Strength forsakes me, and my dazled Eyes
Ake with the flashing Light, my loosen'd Knees
Sink under their dull Weight, support me, Lycon.
Alas, I faint.

Lyc.
Afford her Ease, kind Heaven.

Phæd.
Why blaze these Jewels round my wretched Head?
Why all this labour'd Elegance of Dress,
Why flow these wanton Curls in artful Rings?
Take, snatch 'em hence, alas, you all conspire
To heap new Sorrows on my tortur'd Soul,
All, all conspire to make your Queen unhappy.

Ism.
This you requir'd, and to the pleasing Task
Call'd your officious Maids, and urg'd their Art;
You bid 'em lead you from yon hideous Darkness
To the glad chearing Day, yet now avoid it,
And hate the Light you sought.

Phæd.
Oh! my Lycon!
Oh! how I long to lay my weary Head
On tender flow'ry Beds and springing Grass,
To stretch my Limbs beneath the spreading Shades
Of venerable Oaks, to slake my Thirst
With the cool Nectar of refreshing Springs.

Lyc.
I'll sooth her Frenzy, come, Phædra, let's away,
Let's to the Woods, and Lawns, and Limpid Streams.

Phæd.
Come, let's away, and thou most bright Diana,
Goddess of Woods, immortal, chast Diana,
Goddess presiding o'er the rapid Race,
Place me, O place me in the dusty Ring,
Where youthful Charioteers contend for Glory;
See how they mount and shake the flowing Reins,
See from the Goal the fiery Coursers bound,
Now they strain panting up the steepy Hill,
Now sweep along its top, now neigh along the Vale;
How the Car rattles, how its kindling Wheels
Smoak in the Whirl! The circling Sand ascends,
And in the noble Dust the Chariot's lost.

Lyc.
What, Madam!

Phæd.
Ah! my Lycon! ah! what said I?
Where was I hurry'd by my roving Fancy?
My languid Eyes are wet with sudden Tears,
And on my Face unbidden Blushes glow.

Lyc.
Blush then, but blush for your destructive Silence,
That tears your Soul, and weighs you down to Death;
Oh! shou'd you die (ye Pow'rs forbid her Death)
Who then wou'd shield from Wrongs your helpless Orphan?
O! he might wander, Phædra's Son might wander,
A naked Suppliant thro' the World for Aid;
Then he may cry, invoke his Mother's Name.
He may be doom'd to Chains, to Shame, to Death,
While proud Hippolitus shall mount his Throne.

Phæd.
O Heavens!

Lyc.
Ha, Phædra, are you touch'd at this?

Phæd.
Unhappy Wretch! what Name was that you spoke?

Lyc.
And does his Name provoke your just Resentments?
Then let it raise your Fear, as well as Rage:
Think how you wrong'd him, to his Father wrong'd him,
Think how you drove him hence a wandring Exile
To distant Climes, then think what certain Vengeance
His Rage may wreak on your unhappy Orphan:
For his sake then renew your drooping Spirits,
Feed with new Oil the wasting Lamp of Life,
That winks and trembles, now, just now expiring:
Make haste, preserve your Life.

Phæd.
Alas! too long,
Too long have I preserv'd that guilty Life.

Lyc.
Guilty! what Guilt, has Blood, has horrid Murther
Imbru'd your Hands?

Phæd.
Alas, my Hands are guiltless.
But Oh my Heart's defil'd.
I've said too much, forbear the rest, my Lycon,
And let me die to save the black Confession.

Lyc.
Die then, but not alone; old faithful Lycon
Shall be a Victim to your cruel Silence.
Will you not tell? Oh lovely, wretched Queen!
By all the Cares of your first infant Years,
By all the Love, and Faith, and Zeal I've shew'd you,
Tell me your Griefs, unfold your hidden Sorrows,
And teach your Lycon how to bring you Comfort.

Phæd.
What shall I say, malicious cruel Pow'rs?
O where shall I begin! O cruel Venus!
How fatal Love has been to all our Race!

Lyc.
Forget it, Madam, let it die in Silence.

Phæd.
O Ariadne! O unhappy Sister!

Lyc.
Cease to record your Sister's Grief and Shame.

Phæd.
And since the cruel God of Love requires it,
I fall the last, and most undone of all.

Lyc.
Do you then love?

Phæd.
Alas, I groan beneath
The Pain, the Guilt, the Shame of impious Love.

Lyc.
Forbid it Heaven!

Phæd.
Do not upbraid me, Lycon,
I love,—alas, I shudder at the Name,
My Blood runs backward, and my fault'ring Tongue
Sticks at the Sound.—I love,—O righteous Heaven,
Why was I born with such a sense of Virtue,
So great Abhorrence of the smallest Crime,
And yet a Slave to such impetuous Guilt?
Rain on me, Gods, your Plagues, your sharpest Tortures,
Afflict my Soul with any thing but Guilt,
And yet that Guilt is mine,—I'll think no more,
I'll to the Woods among the happier Brutes,
Come let's away, hark, the shrill Horn resounds,
The jolly Huntsmens Cries rend the wide Heavens,
Come, o'er the Hills pursue the bounding Stagg,
Come chase the Lion and the foamy Boar,
Come rouse up all the Monsters of the Wood,
For there, ev'n there Hippolitus will guard me.

Lyc.
Hippolitus!

Phæd.
Who's he that names Hippolitus?
Ah! I'm betray'd, and all my Guilt discover'd,
Oh! give me Poyson, Swords, I'll not live, not bear it;
I'll stop my Breath.

Ism.
I'm lost, but what's that Loss!
Hippolitus is lost or lost to me:
Yet shou'd her Charms prevail upon his Soul,
Shou'd he be false I wou'd not wish him ill,
With my last parting Breath I'd bless my Lord:
Then in some lonely desart place expire,
Whence my unhappy Death shall never reach him,
Lest it shou'd wound his Peace, or damp his Joys.

[Aside.
Lyc.
Think still the Secret in your Royal Breast,
For by the awful Majesty of Jove,
By the All-seeing Sun, by righteous Minos,
By all your kindred Gods we swear, O Phædra,
Safe as our Lives we'll keep the fatal Secret.

Ism. &c.
We swear, all swear to keep it ever secret.

Phæd.
Keep it! from whom? why it's already known,
The Tale, the Whisper of the babling Vulgar;
Oh! can you keep it from your selves, unknow it?
Or do you think I'm so far gone in Guilt,
That I can see, can bear the Looks, the Eyes
Of one who knows my black detested Crimes,
Of one who knows that Phædra loves her Son?

Lyc.
Unhappy Queen! August, unhappy Race!
Oh! why did Theseus touch this fatal Shore?
Why did he save us from Nicander's Arms,
To bring worse Ruin on us by his Love?

Phæd.
His Love indeed, for that unhappy Hour
In which the Priests join'd Theseus's Hand to mine,
Shew'd the young Scythian to my dazled Eyes.
Gods! how I shook! what boiling Heat inflam'd
My panting Breast! how from the Touch of Theseus
My slack Hand dropt, and all the idle Pomp,
Priests, Altars, Victims swam before my Sight!
The God of Love, ev'n the whole God possest me.

Lyc.
At once at first possest you!

Phæd.
Yes, at first,
That fatal Ev'ning we pursu'd the Chase,
When from behind the Wood with rustling Sound
A monstrous Boar rusht forth; his baleful Eyes
Shot glaring Fire, and his stiff pointed Bristles
Rose high upon his Back; at me he made,
Whetting his Tusks, and churning hideous Foam;
Then, then Hippolitus flew in to aid me;
Collecting all himself, and rising to the Blow,
He launch'd the whistling Spear; the well aim'd Jav'lin
Pierc'd his tough Hide, and quiver'd in his Heart;
The Monster fell, and gnashing with huge Tusks
Plow'd up the Crimson Earth. But then Hippolitus,
Gods! how he mov'd and look'd when he approach'd me!
When hot and panting from the savage Conquest,
Dreadful as Mars, and as his Venus lovely,
His kindling Cheeks with Purple Beauties glow'd,
His lovely, sparkling Eyes shot martial Fires,
Oh Godlike Form! Oh Extasie and Transport!
My Breath grew short, my beating Heart sprung upward,
And leap'd and bounded in my heaving Bosom.
Alas, I'm pleas'd, the horrid Story charms me,
No more; that Night with Fear and Love I sick'n'd.
Oft I receiv'd his fatal charming Visits;
Then wou'd he talk with such an heav'nly Grace,
Look with such dear Compassion on my Pains,
That I cou'd wish to be so sick for ever.
My Ears, my greedy Eyes, my thirsty Soul,
Drank gorging in the dear delicious Poison,
Till I was lost, quite lost in impious Love:
And shall I drag an execrable Life,
And shall I hoard up Guilt, and treasure Vengeance?

Lyc.
No, labour, strive, subdue that Guilt and live.

Phæd.
Did I not labour, strive, All-seeing Pow'rs,
Did I not weep and pray, implore your Aid?
Burnt Clouds of Incense on your loaded Altars?
Oh! I call'd Heaven and Earth to my Assistance,
All the ambitious Thirst of Fame and Empire,
And all the honest Pride of conscious Virtue;
I struggl'd, rav'd; the new-born Passion reign'd
Almighty in its Birth.

Lyc.
Did you e'er try
To gain his Love.

Phæd.
Avert such Crimes ye Pow'rs!
No, t'avoid his Love I sought his Hatred;
I wrong'd him, shunn'd him, banish'd him from Crete,
I sent him, drove him from my longing sight:
In vain I drove him, for his Tyrant Form
Reign'd in my Heart, and dwelt before my Eyes;
If to the Gods I pray'd, the very Vows
I made to Heaven, were by my erring Tongue
Spoke to Hippolitus. If I try'd to sleep,
Straight to my drowzy Eyes my restless Fancy
Brought back his fatal Form, and curst my slumber.

Lyc.
First let me try to melt him into Love.

Phæd.
No; did his hapless Passion equal mine
I wou'd refuse the Bliss I most desir'd,
Consult my Fame and sacrifice my Life.
Yes, I wou'd die, Heaven knows, this very Moment,
Rather than wrong my Lord, my Husband Theseus.

Lyc.
Perhaps that Lord, that Husband is no more;
He went from Crete in haste, his Army thin,
To meet the numerous Troops of fierce Molossians;
Yet tho' he lives, while ebbing Life decays
Think on your Son.

Phæd.
Alas, that shocks me,
O let me see my young one, let me snatch
A hasty farewel, a last dying Kiss.
Yet stay, his sight will melt my just Resolves;
But oh! I beg with my last sallying Breath
Cherish my Babe.

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
Madam, I grieve to tell you
What you must know, your Royal Husband's dead.

Phæd.
Dead! oh ye Pow'rs!

Lyc.
O fortunate Event!
Then Earth-born Lycon may ascend the Throne,
Leave to his happy Son the Crown of Jove,
And be ador'd like him. [Aside.]
Mour, mourn, ye Cretans,
Since he's dead whose Valour sav'd your Isle,
Whose prudent Care with flowing Plenty crown'd
His peaceful Subjects, as your tow'ring Ida:
With spreading Oaks, and with descending Streams,
Shades and enriches all the Plains below.
Say how he dy'd.

Mess.
He dy'd as Theseus ought,
In Battel dy'd; Philotas now a Prisoner,
That rushing on fought next his Royal Person,
That saw his thund'ring Arm beat Squadrons down,
Saw the great Rival of Alcides fall:
These Eyes beheld his well-known Steed, beheld
A proud Barbarian glitt'ring in his Arms,
Encumber'd with the Spoil.

Phæd.
Is he then dead?
Is my much injur'd Lord, my Theseus dead?
And don't I shed one Tear upon his Urn?
What! not a Sigh, a Groan, a soft Complaint?
Ah! these are Tributes due from pious Brides,
From a chast Matron, and a virtuous Wife:
But savage Love, the Tyrant of my Heart,
Claims all my Sorrows, and usurps my Grief.

Lyc.
Dismiss that Grief and give a loose to Joy:
He's dead, the Bar of all your Bliss is dead,
Live then, my Queen, forget the wrinkled Theseus,
And take the youthful Hero to your Arms.

Phæd.
I dare not yet admit of such a Thought,
And bless'd be Heav'n that steel'd my stubborn Heart,
That made me shun the bridal Bed of Theseus,
And give him Empire, but refuse him Love.

Lyc.
Then may his happier Son be bless'd with both;
Then rouze your Soul, and muster all your Charms,
Sooth his ambitious Mind with Thirst of Empire,
And all his tender Thoughts with soft Allurements.

Phæd.
But shou'd the Youth refuse my proffer'd Love!
O shou'd he throw me from his loathing Arms!
I fear the Trial, for I know Hippolitus
Fierce in the Right, and obstinately Good:
When round beset, his Virtue like a Flood
Breaks with resistless Force th'opposing Dams,
And bears the Mounds along; they're hurry'd on,
And swell the Torrent they were rais'd to stop.
I dare not yet resolve, I'll try to live,
And to the awful Gods I'll leave the rest.

Lyc.
Madam, your Signet, that your Slave may order
What's most expedient for your Royal Service.

Phæd.
Take it, and with it take the Fate of Phædra:
And thou, O Venus, aid a suppliant Queen,
That owns thy Triumphs, and adores thy Pow'r;
O spare thy Captives, and subdue thy Foes.
On this cold Scythian let thy Pow'r be known,
And in a Lover's Cause assert thy own;
Then Crete as Paphos shall adore thy Shrine
This Nurse of Jove with grateful Fires shall shine,
And with thy Father's Flames shall worship thine.

[Exit Phæd. &c.
Lycon
solus.

[Exit