by Seneca
goddess,
turn your grim threats to a better set of omens.
O Goddess, potent in the woods and groves,
bright heavenly body and glory of the night,
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whose realm shines when the other one is dark,
Triple-formed Hecate,* come! Come to bless our endeavour.
Subdue the stubborn mind of moody Hippolytus;
let him listen kindly; make gentle his savage heart;
let him learn to love, let him feel a reciprocal passion.
Change his mind; though stern, resistant, wild,
let him come under Venus’ rule. Use all your strength on him;
then may you travel on a bright-faced moon,
with clear white horns through cloudless skies,
and may no charms of Thessaly have power
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to drag your chariot down from the night sky,*
and may no shepherd* boast because of you.
Come to your call, give blessings to our prayers now, Goddess:
Here he is, I see him now, praying to his favourite cult statue,
and he comes alone — why hesitate? Fate has granted
an opportune time and place. I must use all my art.
Am I nervous? Yes: the wickedness I plan
will take a lot of courage. But reverence for monarchs
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phaedra
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means abandoning justice; expel honour from your heart;
shame is no good servant of royal power.
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hippolytus Faithful old nurse, you are too old and weak to walk:
why have you hobbled so far? Why does your face look so sad
and worried? Is something wrong? I hope my father is safe,
and Phaedra is safe, and their pair of sons are doing well?
nurse Dismiss your fears: the kingdom and country prosper:
the household is blooming, we rejoice in our good luck.
But you, Hippolytus, should yield to happiness.
You are the one who worries me and makes me anxious.
You treat yourself too hard, your own worst enemy.
When the fates are against you, unhappiness can be forgiven. 440
But if you make yourself wretched of your own accord,
self-tormentor, you deserve to lose
the goods you failed to use. Remember, you are young,
and free your mind! Go out to late-night parties,
wave the torch, get drunk, let Bacchus* take your cares away,
enjoy your youth; its time is fleeting, soon gone.
The hearts of the young are light, they are blessed with the
pleasures of Venus.*
So let yourself be joyful. Why do you sleep alone?
No more adolescent moping. Now is the time
to hurry up and join the race. These years
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are the best of your life; do not let them melt away.
God’s rules* tell what is proper at each stage of life.
Old men’s faces should frown; happiness suits the young.
Why discipline yourself, why murder your true self ?
The farmer profits most from the field whose crop grows free
in its tender youth, rejoicing* in rich corn.
The tree whose towering top is tallest of all the grove
is the one which no grudging hand has hacked or pruned.
The virtuous mind attracts its proper praise
if vigorous liberty has fed its noble soul.
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Will you remain a savage wood-man, ignorant of life,
spending your youth in gloom, despising sex?
Do you believe this is duty, that men should endure
all hardships, taming horses for the track
and waging savage wars with bloody Mars?*
The great lord of the universe was provident and took care,
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phaedra
seeing the thieving fingers of Fate greedy for spoils,
always to repair each theft with new creation.
Come, just try to imagine human life without Venus,
who restocks and restores the losses of our race:
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the world would lie in squalor, its air rank,
the sea would soon be stagnant, empty, without fish,
the sky would have no birds, the woods no wild beasts;
only the winds would rattle through the open air.
How many ways to die already lurk to seize*
the race of mortals! The sea, weapons, tricks.
You think these things are not your fate? But now we seek
dark Styx* of our own accord. Imagine what will happen
if no young people have children: those you see now will be
obliterated all at once, in a single generation.
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Go on then, follow nature* as your guide to life.
Get out to the city more often, join in with the crowds.
hippolytus There is no other life so free, so clean of sin,
so respectful of the ways of old,
as that which leaves the city walls, to be happy in the woods.
Anger, lust, and greed do not set fire to the heart
of the innocent man whose home is on the mountain tops.
The winds of the faithless mob leave him unswayed,
unmoved by their perverted hate and brittle love.
He is no slave to established power, wants none for himself. 490
He does not pursue the futile goals of fame or fleeting wealth.
He is free from hope and free from fear. Black, biting envy
does not pursue him with mean grasping jaws.
He does not know the wicked crimes whose seeds are sown
in cities. He does not tremble, guilty, at each sound,
or twist his words in fear. He has no wish to be rich,
live in a thousand-columned house, and have his roof inlaid
with thick gold leaf. No altar drips for him with gore,
piously drenched; nor, adorned with sacrificial fruits,
do a hundred snow-white oxen bend their necks for him.
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Instead, he is master of the countryside. Through the open air
he wanders in innocence. He lays his cunning snares
only for animals, and when he is tired from work
he bathes himself in melted snow from the Ilissus.*
Sometimes he chooses a place by the flowing river Alpheus;*
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phaedra
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sometimes he walks in thickets of the dense and dark wood grove
where the pure water of icy Lerna glimmers,*
shaded from sunlight. Here, the shrill twittering birds
complain, while the branches tremble, struck by the gentle winds,
and the old beech trees. He loves to lie on the banks
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by meandering brooks, or take a little nap
resting his head on the grass, where a waterfall
gushes down, or where freshwater streams
murmur sweetly by the new-grown flowers.
All he needs to eat is fruit shaken from the trees,
while berries picked from shrubs can easily supply
his simple meals. His whole desire is to be far away
from regal pomp. Drinking from golden cups, the proud
consume anxiety; what joy to taste fresh water
from naked hands! A deeper, surer sleep
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holds the man who stretches out on a hard mattress — in safety.
The wicked look for sin in secret, with lights out;
in fearfulness they hide inside a house
of a hundred rooms. Better, live in the light,
let heaven be your witness. This, indeed, I think,
is the way they lived of old, the demigo
ds,
poured forth by the first great age of man.* They had no blind
desire for gold;* no boundary stones were set in the land
as legal markers of territory to divide the people.
As yet no trusting ships had pierced the ocean’s deep;*
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each man remained by familiar waters; no great ramparts
surrounded the outskirts of cities, nor thick ranks of towers.
No soldiers yet held savage weapons in their hands;
nor did the cunning catapult break through closed doors
with heavy stones; the earth was free from any master,
not yet enslaved to bear the teams of ploughing oxen.
The reverent people asked for nothing from the fields;
earth bore its crops for free. Woodlands produced their wealth
naturally, and shady caves provided natural homes.
The pact was violated by the wicked lust for money,
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precipitous anger, and all the desires which seize
on minds inflamed. The thirst for power came upon them,
bloody; the stronger preyed upon the weak, and Might
became their Right. Then first they began to make war
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phaedra
with fists, unarmed; then rocks and branches torn from trees
became their weapons. They had no wooden javelins,
fitted with slender iron tips, nor did they wear
long-swords at their sides, they had no helmets, trimmed
with glittering bright crests. Bitterness made their weapons.
War-loving Mars discovered new inventions,
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death in a thousand shapes. From that time forward
every land was stained with blood, and all the seas were red.
Then crime walked through every household without check;
there were examples of every kind of wicked deed.
Brother killed brother, parents died at their children’s hands,
the husband lies dead, killed by his own wife’s sword,
and wicked mothers slaughtered their own young;
I will not talk of stepmothers — beasts are more kind.
But Woman is the root of all evil. Full of her wicked schemes,
she lays siege* to men’s minds. How many cities have burned 560
because of their adulteries! How many wars they have caused,
how many kingdoms overturned, how many enslaved!
Forget the rest, remember only Aegeus’ wife,
Medea* — proof enough that women are the devil.
nurse Why should you blame all women for the crimes of a few?
hippolytus I hate them all, I curse them, I shun them,
I reject them.
Be it reason, nature, or passion* which inspires me,
my pleasure is to hate them. Water and fire will mix,
the tricksy quicksands of Syrtis will offer a friendly welcome
to wandering ships, and from her farthest shore
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Hesperian Tethys* will raise the shining dawn in the west,
and wolves will turn with gentle faces to the deer,
before I will yield and welcome any woman.
nurse The bridle of Love often curbs a stubborn heart, and
changes
hatred to something else. Think of your mother, and her people
the Amazons;* wild things, they submitted to the yoke of Venus;*
you are the proof of that,* their one surviving son.
hippolytus My only comfort for my mother’s death
is that I am now permitted to hate all living women.
nurse How like a rock he is, so hard, immovable:
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as a rock resists the waves and dashes far away
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phaedra
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the waters which assail it, so he rejects my words.
But here is Phaedra, running, rushing, resistant to all delay.
What will happen? Where will her crazy passion turn?
Oh! Now suddenly she has fallen down on the ground
her body lifeless, her face pale as a corpse.
Lift up her head! Come on, say something! Quick!
Look, child, it is your own Hippolytus who holds you.
phaedra Who brings me back to suffering, and lays again the
weights
of longing on my heart? How gladly I would die.
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hippolytus Why do you not welcome the gift of light restored?
phaedra Be brave, my soul, attempt it: do what you have to do.
Speak boldly and firmly. Diffident requests
invite refusal. The greatest part of my crime
is done already. It is too late for shame.
I have fallen in a terrible sort of love. If I press forward,
perhaps I can hide my sin under the marriage torch.
Success sometimes makes wickedness look good.
So on, my soul, begin! — Listen a moment, please;
I have something private to say. If your friends are around,
let them go.
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hippolytus No, the whole place is deserted; no one sees.
phaedra But when I start to speak, my mouth refuses the words.
A great urge pushes me to talk, a greater, to be silent.
Act as my witness, gods, I do not desire
what I desire.*
hippolytus Do you have something you cannot say, but want to?
phaedra Small worries speak but great ones hold their tongues.
hippolytus Mother, please tell me what your trouble is.
phaedra ‘Mother’! that heavy title means too much.
A lowlier name would suit my feelings better;
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Hippolytus call me ‘sister’, or ‘hand-maiden’—
yes, call me your slave, I will serve you in every way.
I would not be ashamed, if you bid me go through snow-drifts,
to scale the frozen ridges of Mount Pindus.
And if you bade me walk through fire and enemy ranks in war
I would bare my breast to meet the naked swords.
Take up the sceptre entrusted to you, accept me as your servant:
it is right for you to give orders, and me to obey.
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phaedra
It is not women’s job to govern cities.
You, who are strong in the first flower of youth,
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should rule the people by your father’s right.
Hold and protect me in your arms, your servant and your
suppliant;
pity a widow!
hippolytus May almighty god
prevent this omen! My father will soon be safe home.
phaedra The master of the silent Styx, that dungeon realm,
grants others no escape to the upper world.
Will he grant the favour to the man who stole his wife?*
Not unless maybe even Hades smiles on love.
hippolytus The gods are just; they will return him home again.
But while god leaves our prayers unanswered, I
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shall act with dutiful love towards my brothers;
I will make sure that you should not feel widowed:
I will myself act as my father to you.
phaedra Deceptive love! How lovers trust their hopes!
Perhaps I have not said enough — I will beseech him.
Have mercy, listen to my prayer, from a frightened heart.
I want to speak, and yet I feel ashamed.
hippolytus
What is your trouble?
phaedra My pain is a surprising one for a stepmother.
hippolytus You are talking in a strange, ambiguous way.
Explain it clearly.
phaedra
A
kind of heat — or, love —
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burns up my mad heart. It rages like wildfire
in my marrow, through my veins. It scorches,
buried in my belly, secretly running through me,
as a quick flame runs over timbered roofs.
hippolytus Surely this is your conjugal passion for Theseus.
phaedra Hippolytus, you are right: I am in love with Theseus,
as he used to look when he was young,
when the first tufts of beard marked his cheeks,
when he saw the hidden home of the monstrous Minotaur,
and wound the long thread on the twisting path.*
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How fine he looked! He wore a garland round his hair.
His face was gentle, shining bright with dignity.
He had firm muscles on his soft young arms.
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phaedra
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His face was like your goddess, Diana, or my Apollo,*
or rather, it was like yours. He looked like you when he
conquered
even his enemy’s heart.* He held his head high, just like you.
You are even better-looking, your beauty is unstudied.
All your father lives again in you, but mixed with your mother,
that wild woman, who gives you an equal share of beauty.
You have Scythian fierceness in a Grecian face.
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If you had crossed the sea to Crete with him,
my sister would have spun her thread for you.
Sister, wherever in the heavenly vault* you shine,
I call upon your help; my cause is just like yours!
One family has conquered both us sisters:
the father won you, me the son. Look, I beseech you,
begging you at your knees — a royal princess,
I am untainted, pure, untouched by stain, and chaste:
only for you I changed. I have stooped to prayer, and I know
this day will end my pain, or end my life.
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Have mercy on me. I love you.
hippolytus
Great ruler of gods!*
Are you so slow to hear and see the works of sin?
Oh, when will your fierce hand send down a thunderbolt?
Why is the air so calm? Let the sky be rolled together,
and rush to ruin, let black clouds bury day,
and let the stars turn back their course and run aslant
on twisted orbits! O Sun, brightest of stars,
do you not see your grandchild’s wickedness?
Drown day in night and run to hide in shadows!
O king of gods and men, why are you slow to act,