Hippolytus/The Bacchae | Page 4

that weighs my brow, And let my long hair stream.
NURSE Nay, toss not, Child, so feveredly. The sickness best will win relief By quiet rest and constancy. All men have grief.
PHAEDRA (_not noticing her_) Oh for a deep and dewy spring, With runlets cold to draw and drink! And a great meadow blossoming, Long-grassed, and poplars in a ring, To rest me by the brink!
NURSE Nay, Child! Shall strangers hear this tone So wild, and thoughts so fever-flown?
PHAEDRA Oh, take me to the Mountain! Oh, Pass the great pines and through the wood, Up where the lean hounds softly go, A-whine for wild things' blood, And madly flies the dappled roe. O God, to shout and speed them there, An arrow by my chestnut hair Drawn tight, and one keen glimmering spear-- Ah! if I could!
NURSE What wouldst thou with them--fancies all!-- Thy hunting and thy fountain brink? What wouldst thou? By the city wall Canst hear our own brook plash and fall Downhill, if thou wouldst drink.
PHAEDRA O Mistress of the Sea-lorn Mere Where horse-hoofs beat the sand and sing, O Artemis, that I were there To tame Enetian steeds and steer Swift chariots in the ring!
NURSE Nay, mountainward but now thy hands Yearned out, with craving for the chase; And now toward the unseaswept sands Thou roamest, where the coursers pace! O wild young steed, what prophet knows The power that holds thy curb, and throws Thy swift heart from its race? [_At these words PHAEDRA gradually recovers herself and pays attention._]
PHAEDRA What have I said? Woe's me! And where Gone straying from my wholesome mind? What? Did I fall in some god's snare? --Nurse, veil my head again, and blind Mine eyes.--There is a tear behind That lash.--Oh, I am sick with shame! Aye, but it hath a sting, To come to reason; yet the name Of madness is an awful thing.-- Could I but die in one swift flame Unthinking, unknowing!
NURSE I veil thy face, Child.--Would that so Mine own were veiled for evermore, So sore I love thee! ... Though the lore Of long life mocks me, and I know How love should be a lightsome thing Not rooted in the deep o' the heart; With gentle ties, to twine apart If need so call, or closer cling.-- Why do I love thee so? O fool, O fool, the heart that bleeds for twain, And builds, men tell us, walls of pain, To walk by love's unswerving rule The same for ever, stern and true! For "Thorough" is no word of peace: 'Tis "Naught-too-much" makes trouble cease. And many a wise man bows thereto. [The LEADER OF THE CHORUS here approaches the NURSE.]
LEADER Nurse of our Queen, thou watcher old and true, We see her great affliction, but no clue Have we to learn the sickness. Wouldst thou tell The name and sort thereof, 'twould like us well.
NURSE Small leechcraft have I, and she tells no man.
LEADER Thou know'st no cause? Nor when the unrest began?
NURSE It all comes to the same. She will not speak.
LEADER (turning and looking at PHAEDRA). How she is changed and wasted! And how weak!
NURSE 'Tis the third day she hath fasted utterly.
LEADER What, is she mad? Or doth she seek to die?
NURSE I know not. But to death it sure must lead.
LEADER 'Tis strange that Theseus takes hereof no heed.
NURSE She hides her wound, and vows it is not so.
LEADER Can he not look into her face and know?
NURSE Nay, he is on a journey these last days.
LEADER Canst thou not force her, then? Or think of ways To trap the secret of the sick heart's pain?
NURSE Have I not tried all ways, and all in vain? Yet will I cease not now, and thou shalt tell If in her grief I serve my mistress well! [She goes across to where PHAEDRA _lies; and presently, while speaking, kneels by her_.] Dear daughter mine, all that before was said Let both of us forget; and thou instead Be kindlier, and unlock that prisoned brow. And I, who followed then the wrong road, now Will leave it and be wiser. If thou fear Some secret sickness, there be women here To give thee comfort. [PHAEDRA shakes her head. No; not secret? Then Is it a sickness meet for aid of men? Speak, that a leech may tend thee. Silent still? Nay, Child, what profits silence? If 'tis ill This that I counsel, makes me see the wrong: If well, then yield to me. Nay, Child, I long For one kind word, one look! [PHAEDRA _lies motionless. The_ NURSE _rises._] Oh, woe is me! Women, we labour here all fruitlessly, All as far off as ever from her heart! She ever scorned me, and now hears no part Of all my prayers!