No More Learning

. . .

Phaedra

Each moment's precious to me, Theseus, listen.
It was I who cast my eyes, profane, incestuous
On that son of yours, so chaste and virtuous.
Heaven lit the fatal flame within my breast: 1625
That detestable Oenone managed all the rest.
She feared lest Hippolytus, learning of my ardour,
Might reveal a passion that filled him with horror.
The traitress, profiting from my profound weakness,
Hurried to you to denounce him to your face. 1630
She has punished herself, and escaped my anger,
By seeking in the waves a far gentler torture.
A blade would have already ended my fate too:
But I wished to let virtue, suspected, cry to you.
I wished, in exposing my remorse to you, 1635
To go down to the dead by a slower route.
I have taken. . . I have spread through my burning veins,
A poison that Medea brought to Athens.
Already the venom flows towards my heart,
An unaccustomed chill pierces my dying heart: 1640
Already I see as if through a clouded sky,
Heaven, and a husband my presence horrifies.
And Death, from my eyes, stealing the clarity,
Gives back to the day, defiled, all his purity.

Panope

She dies, my Lord.

Theseus

If only the memory 1645
Of so black a crime could die with her entirely!
Let me, now that my error is all too clear,
Mingle my wretched son's blood with my tears.
Let me clasp my dear boy, embracing what is left,
To expiate the madness of a prayer I now detest. 1650
As he deserved, so let me render him honour:
And, the better to appease his spirit's anger,
Despite the plotting of her guilty brothers,
Treat his loved one, from today, as my daughter.