NURSE Well, if thou wilt!--'Twere best never to err, But, having erred, to take a counsellor Is second.--Mark me now. I have within love-philtres, to make peace where storm hath been, That, with no shame, no scathe of mind, shall save Thy life from anguish; wilt but thou be brave! [_To herself, rejecting_.] Ah, but from him, the well-beloved, some sign We need, or word, or raiment's hem, to twine Amid the charm, and one spell knit from twain. PHAEDRA Is it a potion or a salve? Be plain. NURSE Who knows? Seek to be helped, Child, not to know. PHAEDRA Why art thou ever subtle? I dread thee, so. NURSE Thou wouldst dread everything!--What dost thou dread? PHAEDRA Least to his ear some word be whispered. NURSE Let be, Child! I will make all well with thee! --Only do thou, O Cyprian of the Sea, Be with me! And mine own heart, come what may, Shall know what ear to seek, what word to say! [_The_ NURSE, _having spoken these last words in prayer apart to the Statue of_ CYPRIS, _turns back and goes into the house_. PHAEDRA _sits pensive again on her couch till towards the end of the following Song, when she rises and bends close to the door_.] CHORUS Erôs, Erôs, who blindest, tear by tear, Men's eyes with hunger; thou swift Foe that pliest Deep in our hearts joy like an edgèd spear; Come not to me with Evil haunting near, Wrath on the wind, nor jarring of the clear Wing's music as thou fliest! There is no shaft that burneth, not in fire, Not in wild stars, far off and flinging fear, As in thine hands the shaft of All Desire, Erôs, Child of the Highest! In vain, in vain, by old Alpheüs' shore The blood of many bulls doth stain the river And all Greece bows on Phoebus' Pythian floor; Yet bring we to the Master of Man no store The Keybearer, who standeth at the door Close-barred, where hideth ever The heart of the shrine. Yea, though he sack man's life Like a sacked city, and moveth evermore Girt with calamity and strange ways of strife, Him have we worshipped never! * * * * * There roamed a Steed in Oechalia's wild, A Maid without yoke, without Master, And Love she knew not, that far King's child; But he came, he came, with a song in the night. With fire, with blood; and she strove in flight, A Torrent Spirit, a Maenad white, Faster and vainly faster, Sealed unto Heracles by the Cyprian's Might. Alas, thou Bride of Disaster!