Hippolytus (1240-1270)

Stay, stay, my horses whom my own hand hath fed at the manger, destroy me not utterly. O luckless curse of a father! Will no one come and save me for all my virtue?

Now we, though much we longed to help, were left far behind. At last, I know not how, he broke loose

from the shapely reins that bound him, a faint breath of life still in him; but the horses disappeared, and that portentous bull, among the rocky ground, I know not where.

I am but a slave in thy house, ’tis true, O king,

yet will I never believe so monstrous a charge against thy son’s character, no! not though the whole race of womankind should hang itself, or one should fill with writing every pine-tree tablet grown on Ida, sure as I am of his uprightness.

Alas! new troubles come to plague us, nor is there any escape from fate and necessity.

My hatred for him who hath thus suffered made me glad at thy tidings, yet from regard for the gods and him, because he is my son,

I feel neither joy nor sorrow at his sufferings.

But say, are we to bring the victim hither, or how are we to fulfil thy wishes? Bethink thee; if by me thou wilt be schooled, thou wilt not harshly treat thy son in his sad plight.

Bring him hither, that when I see him face to face, who hath denied having polluted my wife’s honour, I may by words and heaven’s visitation convict him.