Poems & Ballads Volume I Part 4

HIPPOLYTUS.

Let not this woman wail and cleave to me, That am no part of the G.o.ds' wrath with her; Loose ye her hands from me lest she take hurt.

CHORUS.

Lady, this speech and majesty are twain; Pure shame is of one counsel with the G.o.ds.

HIPPOLYTUS.

Man is as beast when shame stands off from him.

PHDRA.

Man, what have I to do with shame or thee?

I am not of one counsel with the G.o.ds.

I am their kin, I have strange blood in me, I am not of their likeness nor of thine: My veins are mixed, and therefore am I mad, Yea therefore chafe and turn on mine own flesh, Half of a woman made with half a G.o.d.

But thou wast hewn out of an iron womb And fed with molten mother-snow for milk.

A sword was nurse of thine; Hippolyta, That had the spear to father, and the axe To bridesman, and wet blood of sword-slain men For wedding-water out of a n.o.ble well, Even she did bear thee, thinking of a sword, And thou wast made a man mistakingly.

Nay, for I love thee, I will have thy hands, Nay, for I will not loose thee, thou art sweet, Thou art my son, I am thy father's wife, I ache toward thee with a bridal blood, The pulse is heavy in all my married veins, My whole face beats, I will feed full of thee, My body is empty of ease, I will be fed, I am burnt to the bone with love, thou shalt not go, I am heartsick, and mine eyelids p.r.i.c.k mine eyes, Thou shalt not sleep nor eat nor say a word Till thou hast slain me. I am not good to live.

CHORUS.

This is an evil born with all its teeth, When love is cast out of the bound of love.

HIPPOLYTUS.

There is no hate that is so hateworthy.

PHDRA.

I pray thee turn that hate of thine my way, I hate not it nor anything of thine.

Lo, maidens, how he burns about the brow, And draws the chafing sword-strap down his hand.

What wilt thou do? wilt thou be worse than death?

Be but as sweet as is the bitterest, The most dispiteous out of all the G.o.ds, I am well pleased. Lo, do I crave so much?

I do but bid thee be unmerciful, Even the one thing thou art. Pity me not: Thou wert not quick to pity. Think of me As of a thing thy hounds are keen upon In the wet woods between the windy ways, And slay me for a spoil. This body of mine Is worth a wild beast's fell or hide of hair, And spotted deeper than a panther's grain.

I were but dead if thou wert pure indeed; I pray thee by thy cold green holy crown And by the fillet-leaves of Artemis.

Nay, but thou wilt not. Death is not like thee.

Albeit men hold him worst of all the G.o.ds.

For of all G.o.ds Death only loves not gifts,[1]

Nor with burnt-offering nor blood-sacrifice Shalt thou do aught to get thee grace of him; He will have nought of altar and altar-song, And from him only of all the lords in heaven Persuasion turns a sweet averted mouth.

But thou art worse: from thee with baffled breath Back on my lips my prayer falls like a blow, And beats upon them, dumb. What shall I say?

There is no word I can compel thee with To do me good and slay me. But take heed; I say, be wary; look between thy feet, Lest a snare take them though the ground be good.

HIPPOLYTUS.

Shame may do most where fear is found most weak; That which for shame's sake yet I have not done, Shall it be done for fear's? Take thine own way; Better the foot slip than the whole soul swerve.

PHDRA.

The man is choice and exquisite of mouth; Yet in the end a curse shall curdle it.

CHORUS.

He goes with cloak upgathered to the lip, Holding his eye as with some ill in sight.

PHDRA.

A bitter ill he hath i' the way thereof, And it shall burn the sight out as with fire.

CHORUS.

Speak no such word whereto mischance is kin.

PHDRA.

Out of my heart and by fate's leave I speak.

CHORUS.

Set not thy heart to follow after fate.

PHDRA.

O women, O sweet people of this land, O goodly city and pleasant ways thereof, And woods with pasturing gra.s.s and great well-heads, And hills with light and night between your leaves, And winds with sound and silence in your lips, And earth and water and all immortal things, I take you to my witness what I am.

There is a G.o.d about me like as fire, Sprung whence, who knoweth, or who hath heart to say?

A G.o.d more strong than whom slain beasts can soothe, Or honey, or any spilth of blood-like wine, Nor shall one please him with a whitened brow Nor wheat nor wool nor aught of plaited leaf.

For like my mother am I stung and slain, And round my cheeks have such red malady And on my lips such fire and foam as hers.

This is that Ate out of Amathus That breeds up death and gives it one for love.

She hath slain mercy, and for dead mercy's sake (Being frighted with this sister that was slain) Flees from before her fearful-footed shame, And will not bear the bending of her brows And long soft arrows flown from under them As from bows bent. Desire flows out of her As out of lips doth speech: and over her s.h.i.+nes fire, and round her and beneath her fire.

She hath sown pain and plague in all our house, Love loathed of love, and mates unmatchable, Wild wedlock, and the l.u.s.ts that bleat or low, And marriage-fodder snuffed about of kine.

Lo how the heifer runs with leaping flank Sleek under s.h.a.ggy and speckled lies of hair, And chews a horrible lip, and with harsh tongue Laps alien froth and licks a loathlier mouth.

Alas, a foul first steam of trodden tares, And fouler of these late grapes underfoot.

A bitter way of waves and clean-cut foam Over the sad road of sonorous sea The high G.o.ds gave king Theseus for no love, Nay, but for love, yet to no loving end.