Hippolytus (1408-1430)

My son, I am a ruined man; life has no joys for me.

For this mistake I mourn thee rather than myself.

O that I had died for thee, my son!

Ah! those fatal gifts thy sire Poseidon gave.

Would God these lips had never uttered that prayer!

Why not? thou wouldst in any case have slain me in thy fury then.

Yes; Heaven had perverted my power to think.

O that the race of men could bring a curse upon the gods!

Enough! for though thou pass to gloom beneath the earth, the wrath of Cypris shall not, at her will, fall on thee unrequited, because thou hadst a noble righteous soul.[*]

For I with mine own hand will with these unerring shafts avenge me on another,[*] who is her votary, dearest to her of all the sons of men. And to thee, poor sufferer, for thy anguish now will I grant high honours in the city of Troezen;

for thee shall maids unwed before their marriage cut off their hair, thy harvest through the long roll of time of countless bitter tears. Yea, and for ever shall the virgin choir hymn thy sad memory,

nor shall Phaedra’s love for thee fall into oblivion and pass away unnoticed.