1600
His death gives me reason enough for tears,
Without my searching into other matters:
It won't restore him to me, in my grief, again:
Perhaps it would only serve to increase my pain.
His death gives me reason enough for tears,
Without my searching into other matters:
It won't restore him to me, in my grief, again:
Perhaps it would only serve to increase my pain.
Racine - Phaedra
She came, and saw the grasses' red steam rise.
She saw (what a vision for a lover's eyes! )
Hippolyte, lying there, robbed of colour and form.
For some time she doubted her own misfortune, 1580
And no longer recognising the hero she adored,
She asked for Hippolytus, whom indeed she saw.
But, realising he was before her eyes, at last,
She accused the heavens with one sad glance,
And cold, grieving, almost inanimate, 1585
Fell, at her lover's feet there, in a faint.
Ismene, bathed in tears, Ismene, by her,
Recalled her to life, or rather to sorrow.
And I, hating the light, I have come, my Lord,
To relate to you the hero's final word, 1590
And acquit myself of the painful duty,
That his dying breath committed to me.
But I see that his mortal enemy comes.
Act V Scene VII (Theseus, Phaedra, Theramenes, Panope, Guards)
Theseus
So! My son is lifeless, and you triumph.
Ah! How right I was to fear, with what true reason, 1595
Forgiving him in my heart, came cruel suspicion!
But, Madame, he is dead, possess your victim:
Justly or unjustly, rejoice in his ruin.
I'll allow my eyes to be deceived forever.
I'll believe him guilty since you're his accuser.
1600
His death gives me reason enough for tears,
Without my searching into other matters:
It won't restore him to me, in my grief, again:
Perhaps it would only serve to increase my pain.
Let me, far from these shores, from everyone, 1605
Flee the bloodstained vision of my ruined son.
Dazed, obsessed by a deadly memory,
I'd banish myself from this world completely.
Everything seems to rise against my ill ruling.
The splendour of my name adds to my suffering. 1610
Less known to men, I could hide more easily.
I even hate the kindness the gods have shown me:
And now I must weep at their murderous favours,
Wearying them no longer with useless prayers.
Whatever they did for me, their fatal love 1615
Cannot restore what they have robbed me of.
Phaedra
No, Theseus, I must break my unjust silence:
And to your son I must restore his innocence.
He was in no way guilty.
Theseus
Ah! Wretched father!
I condemned him because you were his accuser. 1620
Cruel one, do you think to be forgiven. . .
