No More Learning

Ismene

Madame, I think so.

Aricia

Is unfeeling Hippolytus known to you though? 400
What shallow hope makes you think he'll pity me,
And respect a sex he treats disdainfully?
You see he's evaded us for some time now,
And seeks the places where we never go.

Ismene

I know all that they say about his coldness: 405
But I've seen proud Hippolytus in your presence:
And, even as I watched, the rumours of his pride
Redoubled my curiosity, I find.
His reality didn't quite match the rumour:
At your first glances I found him someone other. 410
His eyes, that wished in vain to evade you,
Already, filled with yearning, could not leave you.
A lover's name perhaps would slight his courage:
But he has the eyes of one, if not the language.

Aricia

Dear Ismene, my heart hears it so eagerly, 415
Your speech that owes so little to reality!
O you who know me does it seem believable
That the sad plaything of a fate so pitiable,
A heart fed always on tears and bitterness,
Could still know love, and its sad foolishness? 420
Born of a king, a noble prince of this world,
I alone escaped the furious wars unfurled.
I lost six brothers in the flower of their youth,
And the hopes of an illustrious house in truth!
The sword took them all: and the clinging mud, 425
Drank with regret Erectheus' nephews' blood.
You know, since their death, what law's severity
Forbade any of those Greeks to sigh for me:
They fear lest the sister's reckless passions
Will one day re-animate the brothers' ashes. 430
But you also know with what a scornful air
I regarded the suspicious conqueror's care.
You know that, ever resistant to all lust,
I often gave thanks to Theseus the unjust,
Whose fine severity supported my contempt. 435
Yet my eyes, my eyes had not seen his son yet.
Not through the eyes alone, shamefully enchanted,
Do I love the beauty of him, his grace so vaunted,
Gifts with which nature wished to honour him,
Which he himself disdains, ignores it seems. 440
I love I find, in him, the noblest riches,
His father's virtues, and not his weaknesses.
I love, I must confess, that generous pride,
Which has never bent beneath a yoke of sighs.
Phaedra was honoured by Theseus' breath in vain, 445
For myself, I'm prouder, and flee the glory gained
From homage offered to hundreds, and so easily,
From entering a heart thrown open to so many.
But to make an unyielding courage bend,
To make that unfeeling heart of his feel pain, 450
To fetter a captive astonished by his chains,
Fighting the yoke, that delights him so, in vain:
That's what I wish, that is what excites me.
To disarm Hippolytus counts for more than Hercules:
Often vanquished, and defeated more swiftly, 455
To the eyes that tamed him offering less glory.
But, alas, dear Ismene! How daring I am!
I'll be blocked indeed by profound resistance.
Perhaps you'll hear me, humbled then, in pain,
Lamenting that same pride I admire today. 460
Hippolyte might love? By what great happiness
Might I have altered. . .