 | Phaedra and Hippolytus |  |
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Act V.
Scene I.
THESEUS, PHÆDRA, CHORUS, and Servants.THESEUS.
What Fury to thy grief-pierc'd Soul adds Stings?
Why this drawn Sword? Whence is't this Passion springs?
What mean these Outcries? And these Tears you shed
Over the hated Reliques of the dead?
Phæd.
Me, me, thou King of Waves, invade 'gainst me
Send forth the horrid Monsters of the Sea.
Whatever Thetis in her inmost Deeps,
Or in its utmost Waves the Ocean keeps.
Unlucky Theseus! Thou, who to thy own,
Still fatally revert'st! Father and Son,
By thy return, both suffering; born to prove
Thy House's Ruine! In thy Hates or Love
Unto thy Wives equally hurtful; thus
Do I behold thee, dear Hippolytus!
And did I make thee such? These Limbs of thine
What Scinis or Procrustes did disjoyn?
Or hath the Cretan Bull (that makes the round
Of the Dædalian Labyrinth resound
With horrid Bellowings) mangled thus, and torn
Thy tender Body with his goring Horn?
Ah me! Where is thy Beauty fled? the Light
Of thy fair Eyes, my Stars! Set in dark Night?
And art thou dead? Yet let thy Soul a while
Here hover, and my last Words hear: Nought vile
Will we now speak: This Hand, and 'tis but right,
Shall with due Punishment thy Wrongs requite.
And this revenging Steel strike through my Brest,
And me, at once, of Life and Crime devest.
Then through Tartarean Lakes, dark Styx, and through
The flaming Phlegeton we'll thee pursue.
—But first thy Ghost appease we; thus I spread
My Hairs on thee, thus tear them from my Head.
It was not lawful that we Souls should joyn,
But sure we may joyn Fates: Thus I'll be thine.
Send forth the horrid Monsters of the Sea.
Whatever Thetis in her inmost Deeps,
Or in its utmost Waves the Ocean keeps.
Unlucky Theseus! Thou, who to thy own,
Still fatally revert'st! Father and Son,
By thy return, both suffering; born to prove
Thy House's Ruine! In thy Hates or Love
Unto thy Wives equally hurtful; thus
Do I behold thee, dear Hippolytus!
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What Scinis or Procrustes did disjoyn?
Or hath the Cretan Bull (that makes the round
Of the Dædalian Labyrinth resound
With horrid Bellowings) mangled thus, and torn
Thy tender Body with his goring Horn?
Ah me! Where is thy Beauty fled? the Light
Of thy fair Eyes, my Stars! Set in dark Night?
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Here hover, and my last Words hear: Nought vile
Will we now speak: This Hand, and 'tis but right,
Shall with due Punishment thy Wrongs requite.
And this revenging Steel strike through my Brest,
And me, at once, of Life and Crime devest.
Then through Tartarean Lakes, dark Styx, and through
The flaming Phlegeton we'll thee pursue.
—But first thy Ghost appease we; thus I spread
My Hairs on thee, thus tear them from my Head.
It was not lawful that we Souls should joyn,
But sure we may joyn Fates: Thus I'll be thine.
If then thou'rt chast, unto thy Husband dye,
If not, unto thy Love.—Shall ever I
Guiltless and innocent again be led
To Theseus impiously defiled Bed?
O Death, of my unhappy Love the sure
Redress, and my Shame's expiating Cure!
To thee I fly; receive me in thy wide-
Stretch'd Arms, and in thy peaceful Bosom hide.
If not, unto thy Love.—Shall ever I
Guiltless and innocent again be led
To Theseus impiously defiled Bed?
O Death, of my unhappy Love the sure
Redress, and my Shame's expiating Cure!
To thee I fly; receive me in thy wide-
Stretch'd Arms, and in thy peaceful Bosom hide.
Hear you, Athenians! And thou, Theseus, hear!
Worse Father far than I a Stepmother.
Whate'er I told you were abhorred Lies,
Which from despis'd Affection did arise.
And poor Hippolytus is innocent
Of all those Crimes my Malice did invent.
To charge him with, and punish'd wrongfully.
Receive this Truth due to thy Chastity,
And see my bared Breast ready to take
The just-deserved Steel; whose Blood shall make
Atonement for thy Death.—Now learn by us
What thou shouldst do for thy lost Son,—dye thus.
Worse Father far than I a Stepmother.
Whate'er I told you were abhorred Lies,
Which from despis'd Affection did arise.
And poor Hippolytus is innocent
Of all those Crimes my Malice did invent.
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Receive this Truth due to thy Chastity,
And see my bared Breast ready to take
The just-deserved Steel; whose Blood shall make
Atonement for thy Death.—Now learn by us
What thou shouldst do for thy lost Son,—dye thus.
[Falls upon the Sword.
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Thou pale Avernus! You Tenarian Caves!
And thou, dark Lethe! from whose grateful Waves,
The wretched Souls drink sweet Oblivion:
And ye dull Lakes, that with dead Currents run.
In Plagues eternal plunge this impious Head.
Now rise, thou Monster, from thy wavy Bed,
With all those numerous Fries, that Proteus keeps
In lowest Seas; into your gulphy Deeps
Hurry a Wretch that boasts a Crime so dire,
And thou too easily assenting Sire
To my rash Vows: Hear! I an Act have done,
That merits more than Death, murther'd my Son.
Whilst I with Vengence a feign'd Crime pursue,
I wickedly am fall'n into a true.
Seas, Hell, and Heaven alike our Mischiefs share;
What rests? Notorious to Three Realms we are.
And thou, dark Lethe! from whose grateful Waves,
The wretched Souls drink sweet Oblivion:
And ye dull Lakes, that with dead Currents run.
In Plagues eternal plunge this impious Head.
Now rise, thou Monster, from thy wavy Bed,
With all those numerous Fries, that Proteus keeps
In lowest Seas; into your gulphy Deeps
Hurry a Wretch that boasts a Crime so dire,
And thou too easily assenting Sire
To my rash Vows: Hear! I an Act have done,
That merits more than Death, murther'd my Son.
Whilst I with Vengence a feign'd Crime pursue,
I wickedly am fall'n into a true.
Seas, Hell, and Heaven alike our Mischiefs share;
What rests? Notorious to Three Realms we are.
For this returned we? Scap'd we from Hell free,
That we on Earth might double Slaughters see?
That Widower, and childless, both, I might
At once my Wife's and my Son's Funerals light.
O great Alcides! T'whom the Benefit
Of this sad Light we owe, to Disremit
Thy Gift again.—But on our impious Head
In vain do we invoke the Death we fled.
That we on Earth might double Slaughters see?
That Widower, and childless, both, I might
At once my Wife's and my Son's Funerals light.
O great Alcides! T'whom the Benefit
Of this sad Light we owe, to Disremit
Thy Gift again.—But on our impious Head
In vain do we invoke the Death we fled.
Thou bloody Murderer! That could'st devise
So many strange unheard of Cruelties.
Now on thy self just Vengeance irrogate.
May'st thou by Pines forc'd down; by Strength and Weight
Upward recoyling, torn asunder be,
Or cast from Scyron's Cliffs into the Sea.
More horrid Torments yet, where Phlegeton
With streams of Fire surrounds the damn'd, are known,
And we have seen: Those Plagues, that place full well
To us belong: Make room ye Ghosts of Hell.
On me the weighty Stone impose; and ease
The wearied Hands of old Æolides.
Let cousening Streams my thirsty Lips deceive,
Now let the greedy Vulture Titius leave,
And on my growing Liver ever feast!
Rest, dear Perithous his Parent, rest;
Unto thy torturing Wheel let me be bound,
And with perpetual motion hurried round:
Cleave Earth! And swallow me, thou dark Abyss
Of Night! This way to Hell more fitting is
For Theseus. Son! I follow thee. Nor fear
Thou King of Souls! Not as a Ravisher
Do I now come, but as thy peaceful Guest,
In thy eternal Mansions still to rest.
Receive me then!—But 'lass! These Pray'rs of mine
Are fruitless; nor relentless Gods incline;
Were it some Mischief we implor'd, our Pray'r
How soon would they then grant, how quickly hear!
So many strange unheard of Cruelties.
Now on thy self just Vengeance irrogate.
May'st thou by Pines forc'd down; by Strength and Weight
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Or cast from Scyron's Cliffs into the Sea.
More horrid Torments yet, where Phlegeton
With streams of Fire surrounds the damn'd, are known,
And we have seen: Those Plagues, that place full well
To us belong: Make room ye Ghosts of Hell.
On me the weighty Stone impose; and ease
The wearied Hands of old Æolides.
Let cousening Streams my thirsty Lips deceive,
Now let the greedy Vulture Titius leave,
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Rest, dear Perithous his Parent, rest;
Unto thy torturing Wheel let me be bound,
And with perpetual motion hurried round:
Cleave Earth! And swallow me, thou dark Abyss
Of Night! This way to Hell more fitting is
For Theseus. Son! I follow thee. Nor fear
Thou King of Souls! Not as a Ravisher
Do I now come, but as thy peaceful Guest,
In thy eternal Mansions still to rest.
Receive me then!—But 'lass! These Pray'rs of mine
Are fruitless; nor relentless Gods incline;
Were it some Mischief we implor'd, our Pray'r
How soon would they then grant, how quickly hear!
Chor.
Time for thy Tears, enough rests: Theseus! now
Unto thy Son his Funeral Rites allow;
And decently his Limbs disjoyn'd and torn,
Quickly compose!
Thes.
O give me leave to mourn!
Hither the sad Remainders of his dear
Lov'd Body bring; here lay 'em, lay 'em here.
Is this Hippolytus?—My own dire Act
I now acknowledg; detestable Fact!
I murther'd thee, Hippolytus! 'twas I,
And lest my Guilt should want a double Dy;
Or I an Accessory to my Sin,
Unto my Aid I call'd my Father in.
Now see for what thou didst his Help engage!
O what a Cross is Orbity to Age
Broken with Sorrows! In thy Arms imbrace
His mangled Limbs, and groveling on thy Face,
A miserable Wretch, what yet does rest
Of thy Sons Limbs now cherish in thy Brest.
His torn and scatter'd Members recompose,
And every Limb in its due place dispose.
Here, as I take it, this stout Arm should stand;
Here, that so well could guide the Reins, this Hand;
This sure a Part of his Left Side appears:
How much of him yet's wanting to our Tears!
Hold, trembling Hands, till this sad Work be done;
And stay my parched Cheeks these Tears that run
From my swoln Eyes, whilst I recount my slain
Son's Limbs, and piece his Body up again.
Here's a torn shapeless Lump: What Part of thee
It is, I know not, but some Part 't must be;
Here lay't, in this void place; there let it lie,
And that, though not its own, since void, supply.
Is this that bright sydereal Face of thine,
That could thy Enemy to Love incline?
And is thy Beauty come to this? Dire Fate!
More cruel Love! But far more cruel Hate!
Hither the sad Remainders of his dear
Lov'd Body bring; here lay 'em, lay 'em here.
Is this Hippolytus?—My own dire Act
I now acknowledg; detestable Fact!
I murther'd thee, Hippolytus! 'twas I,
And lest my Guilt should want a double Dy;
Or I an Accessory to my Sin,
Unto my Aid I call'd my Father in.
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O what a Cross is Orbity to Age
Broken with Sorrows! In thy Arms imbrace
His mangled Limbs, and groveling on thy Face,
A miserable Wretch, what yet does rest
Of thy Sons Limbs now cherish in thy Brest.
His torn and scatter'd Members recompose,
And every Limb in its due place dispose.
Here, as I take it, this stout Arm should stand;
Here, that so well could guide the Reins, this Hand;
This sure a Part of his Left Side appears:
How much of him yet's wanting to our Tears!
Hold, trembling Hands, till this sad Work be done;
And stay my parched Cheeks these Tears that run
From my swoln Eyes, whilst I recount my slain
Son's Limbs, and piece his Body up again.
Here's a torn shapeless Lump: What Part of thee
It is, I know not, but some Part 't must be;
Here lay't, in this void place; there let it lie,
And that, though not its own, since void, supply.
Is this that bright sydereal Face of thine,
That could thy Enemy to Love incline?
And is thy Beauty come to this? Dire Fate!
More cruel Love! But far more cruel Hate!
Thus at thy Father's Wish return'st thou, Son!
Of my great Parent, loe! The last kind Boon
Afforded me! That with repeated Cries
I thus should pay thee piece-meal Obsequies.
Of my great Parent, loe! The last kind Boon
Afforded me! That with repeated Cries
I thus should pay thee piece-meal Obsequies.
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But now commit these Reliques to the Fire.
Set open wide our Palace by so dire
A Slaughter stain'd; and let sad Athens round
With Plaints of mournful Citizens resound.
You, whilst these here search for his Limbs that are
Yet unretriev'd; the Funeral Pile prepare.
For her, the Grave afford her Bones a Bed.
But lye Earth heavy on her impious Head.
Set open wide our Palace by so dire
A Slaughter stain'd; and let sad Athens round
With Plaints of mournful Citizens resound.
You, whilst these here search for his Limbs that are
Yet unretriev'd; the Funeral Pile prepare.
For her, the Grave afford her Bones a Bed.
But lye Earth heavy on her impious Head.
FINIS.
| Phaedra and Hippolytus | |