Hippolitus (in distant Scythia born, The warlike Amazon, Camilla's son), [See the Prologue and Epilogue in the Poems of Till our queen's marriage, was unknown to Crete; Addison and Prior.] ACT I. SCENE 1. Enter Cratander and Lycon. LYCON. "TIS strange, Cratander, that the royal Phædra Should still continue resolute in grief, And obstinately wretched: That one so gay, so beautiful and young, CRATANDER. 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? LYCON. 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 tasteless, loathing; whilst dejected Theseus, With mournful loving eyes pursu'd her flight, And dropt a silent tear. CRATANDER. Ha! this is hatred, This is aversion, horrour, detestation: Why did the queen, who might have cull'd mankind, And sure the queen could wish him still unknowne She loaths, detests him, flies his hated presence, And shrinks and trembles at his very name. CRATANDER. 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. LYCON. O! he's all hero, scorns th' inglorious ease Of lazy Crete, delights to shine in arms, To wield the sword, and lanch the pointed spear: Neighs on the hills, and dares the angry lion: To tame the generous horse, that nobly wild To make their stubborn necks the rein obey, To join the struggling coursers to his chariot, To turn, to stop, or stretch along the plain. Now the queen's sick, there's danger in his cou rage. Be ready with your guards.-I fear Hippolitus. To those whose godlike souls are turn'd for empire. But cringe, and flatter, fawn, adore, yet hate him. Let the queen live or die, the prince must fall. Enter Ismena. What! still attending on the queen, Ismena? ISMENA. Let them be cruel that delight in mischief, I'm of a softer mould, poor Phædra's sorrows Pierce through my yielding heart, and wound my soul. LYCON. Now thrice the rising Sun has cheer'd the world, Since she renew'd her strength with due refreshment; Thrice has the night brought ease to man, to beast, ISMENA. But now her grief has wrought her into frenzy ; The images her troubled fancy forms Are incoherent, wild; her words disjointed: Sometimes she raves for music, light, and air; Nor air, nor light, nor music, calm her pains; Then with extatic strength she springs aloft, And moves and bounds with vigour not her own. LYCON. 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. ISMENA, 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, Stay, virgins, stay, I'll rest my weary steps; My strength forsakes me, and my dazzled eyes Ake with the flashing light, my loosen'd knees Sink under their dull weight; support me, Lycon. Alas! I faint. LYCON. Afford her ease, kind Heaven! PHÆDRA. Why blaze these jewels round my wretched head! Why all this labour'd elegance of dress! Come, let's away, and thou, most bright Diana, Goddess of woods, immortal, chaste 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 Smoke in the whirl! The circling sand ascends, And in the noble dust the chariot's lost! LYCON. 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 wandering exile To distant climes! then think what certain vengeance His rage may wreak on your unhappy orphan! PH.EDRA, Do not upbraid me, Lycon' I love!-Alas! I shudder at the name, Why was I born with such a sense of virtue, Afflict my soul with any thing but guilt- PHÆDRA. His love indeed! for that unhappy hour, In which the priests join'd Theseus' hand to mine, Show'd the young Scythian to my dazzled 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! LYCON. At once, at first possest you? PHEDRA. Yes, at first! That fatal evening we pursued the chase, Pierc'd his tough hide, and quiver'd in his heart; When hot and panting from the savage conquest, And leap'd and bounded in my heaving bosom. And shall I heard up guilt, and treasure vengeance? O fortunate event' Since he is dead, whose valour sav'd your isle, MESSENGER. He dy'd as Theseus ought, In battle dy'd; Philotas, now a prisoner, That, rushing on, fought next his royal person, That saw his thundering arm beat squadrons down, Saw the great rival of Alcides fall: These eyes beheld his well-known steed, beheld A proud barbarian glittering in his arms, Encumber'd with the spoil. PHÆDRA. Is he then dead! Is my much-injur'd lord, my Theseus, dead! And don't I shed one tear upon his urn! LYCON. Dismiss that grief, and give a loose to joy: PHÆDRA. I dare not now admit of such a thought, That made me shun the bridal bed of Theseus, LYCON. Then may his happier son be bless'd with both; Then rouze your soul, and muster all your charms, Sooth bis ambitious mind with thirst of empire, And all his tender thoughts with soft allurements. PHÆÆDRA. But should the youth refuse my proffer'd love! LYCON. Madam, your signet, that your slave may order What's most convenient for your royal service. PHÆDRA. Take it, and with it take the fate of Phædra: LYCON solus. If she proposes love, why then as surely A woman scorn'd, with ease I'll work to vengeance: [Exit. |