After an altercation in which he threatens to break his oath of secrecy, he breaks forth into a lengthy and bitter tirade against women, but finally promises to keep his oath. When the prince has retired Phædra proclaims her resolve to avoid shame for her family and herself by death, obtaining from the chorus a promise not to divulge what has occurred; at the same time she obscurely threatens Hippolytus. After she has gone, the chorus voice their yearning to be free from this world of sin and woe; surely this trouble is a curse brought by Phædra from her house in Crete, a curse which is even now forcing her neck into the noose. A messenger rushes forth crying out that the queen has hanged herself. Theseus returns home and is speedily apprised of his loss. Suddenly he sees a letter clutched in his dead wife’s hand; on reading it he announces in fury that Hippolytus has violated his connubial rights. He appeals to his father Poseidon, god of the sea, who has promised to grant him any three prayers, to destroy Hippolytus. The prince returns, and Theseus, after a stinging attack on his son’s pretensions, banishes him. Hippolytus is prevented by his oath from defending himself effectually, and sorrowfully turns away. The chorus ponder upon the mysterious ways of Heaven and lament the downfall of the brilliant prince. One of Hippolytus’ attendants returns and informs Theseus that his son is on the point of death. A gigantic bull, sent by Poseidon out of the sea, terrified Hippolytus’ horses, which bolted and mangled their master. Theseus receives these tidings with grim satisfaction, but the goddess Artemis appears and reveals all the facts. Theseus is utterly prostrated. Hippolytus is carried in, lamenting his agony and unmerited fate. Artemis converses with him affectionately and there follows between the two men a few words lamenting the curse fulfilled by Poseidon. Artemis consoles her favourite and disappears. Hippolytus gives his father full forgiveness, and dies in his embrace. The main impression left by a repeated study of this magnificent drama is a sense of the loveliness and delight which the transfusing genius of a poet can throw around the ruin worked by blind instinct and hate, even around a whole world tortured by belief in gods whose supreme intelligence, will, and power, are quick to punish, but never pardon. No poem in the world conveys more pungently the aroma of life’s inextinguishable beauty and preciousness. Life does not become ugly because full of sin or pain. It can only become ugly by growing unintelligible. So long as it can be understood, it remains to man, whose joys are all founded upon perception, a thing that can be loved; this is the one and sufficient reason why tragic drama is beautiful.