PHAEDRA 'Tis well. But now, yea, even while I reel And falter, one poor hope, as hope now is, I clutch at in this coil of miseries; To save some honour for my children's sake; Yea, for myself some fragment, though things break In ruin around me. Nay, I will not shame The old proud Cretan castle whence I came, I will not cower before King Theseus' eyes, Abased, for want of one life's sacrifice! LEADER What wilt thou? Some dire deed beyond recall? PHAEDRA (_musing_) Die; but how die? LEADER Let not such wild words fall! PHAEDRA (_turning upon her_) Give thou not such light counsel! Let me be To sate the Cyprian that is murdering me! To-day shall be her day; and, all strife past Her bitter Love shall quell me at the last. Yet, dying, shall I die another's bane! He shall not stand so proud where I have lain Bent in the dust! Oh, he shall stoop to share The life I live in, and learn mercy there! [_She goes off wildly into the Castle_.] CHORUS Could I take me to some cavern for mine hiding, In the hill-tops where the Sun scarce hath trod; Or a cloud make the home of mine abiding, As a bird among the bird-droves of God! Could I wing me to my rest amid the roar Of the deep Adriatic on the shore, Where the waters of Eridanus are clear, And Phaëthon's sad sisters by his grave Weep into the river, and each tear Gleams, a drop of amber, in the wave. To the strand of the Daughters of the Sunset, The Apple-tree, the singing and the gold; Where the mariner must stay him from his onset, And the red wave is tranquil as of old; Yea, beyond that Pillar of the End That Atlas guardeth, would I wend; Where a voice of living waters never ceaseth In God's quiet garden by the sea, And Earth, the ancient life-giver, increaseth Joy among the meadows, like a tree. * * * * * O shallop of Crete, whose milk-white wing Through the swell and the storm-beating, Bore us thy Prince's daughter, Was it well she came from a joyous home To a far King's bridal across the foam? What joy hath her bridal brought her? Sure some spell upon either hand Flew with thee from the Cretan strand, Seeking Athena's tower divine; And there, where Munychus fronts the brine, Crept by the shore-flung cables' line, The curse from the Cretan water! And for that dark spell that about her clings, Sick desires of forbidden things The soul of her rend and sever; The bitter tide of calamity Hath risen above her lips; and she, Where bends she her last endeavour? She will hie her alone to her bridal room, And a rope swing slow in the rafters' gloom; And a fair white neck shall creep to the noose, A-shudder with dread, yet firm to choose The one strait way for fame, and lose The Love and the pain for ever.