And when the poet wants to show us the heroine's state of mind his method will be quite different from ours. We should rack our brains to compose a "natural" dialogue in which her state of mind would appear, or we should make her best friend explain what she is like, or we should invent small incidents to throw light upon her. And our language would all the time be carefully naturalistic; not a bit--or, if the poet within us rebels, hardly a bit--more dignified than the average diction of afternoon tea. The ancient poet has no artifice at all. His heroine simply walks forward and explains her own feelings. But she will come at some moment that seems just the right one; she will come to us through a cloud, as it were, of musical emotion from the Chorus, and her words when she speaks will be frankly the language of poetry. They will be none the less sincere or exact for that. When Phaedra in the _Hippolytus_ has resolved to die rather than show her love, much less attempt to satisfy it, and yet has been so weakened by her long struggle that she will not be able to resist much longer, she explains herself to the Chorus in a long speech: O Women, dwellers in this portal seat Of Pelops' land, looking towards my Crete, How oft, in other days than these, have I Through night's long hours thought of man's misery And how this life is wrecked! And, to mine eyes, Not in man's knowledge, not in wisdom, lies The lack that makes for sorrow. Nay, we scan And know the right--for wit hath many a man-- But will not to the last end strive and serve. For some grow too soon weary, and some swerve To other paths, setting before the right The diverse far-off image of Delight, And many are delights beneath the sun. . . . It is not the language that any real woman ever spoke, and it is not meant to be. But it is exactly the thought which this woman may have thought and felt, transmuted into a special kind of high poetry. And the women of the Chorus who are listening to it are like no kind of concrete earthly listeners; they are the sort of listeners that are suited to thoughts rather than words, and their own answer at the end comes not like a real comment but like a note of music. When she finishes, defending her resolve to die rather than sin: O'er all this earth To every false man that hour comes apace When Time holds up a mirror to his face, And marvelling, girl-like, there he stares to see How foul his heart.--Be it not so with me! They answer: Ah, God, how sweet is virtue and how wise, And honour its due meed in all men's eyes! "A commonplace?" "A not very original remark?" There is no need for any original remark; what is needed is a note of harmony in words and thought, and that is what we are given. * * * * *