THESEUS No; my lips' gates will hold it back no more; This deadly word, That struggles on the brink and will not o'er, Yet will not stay unheard. [_He raises his hand, to make proclamation to all present_.] Ho, hearken all this land! [_The people gather expectantly about him_.] Hippolytus by violence hath laid hand On this my wife, forgetting God's great eye. [_Murmurs of amazement and horror; THESEUS, apparently calm, raises both arms to heaven._] Therefore, O Thou my Father, hear my cry, Poseidon! Thou didst grant me for mine own Three prayers; for one of these, slay now my son, Hippolytus; let him not outlive this day, If true thy promise was! Lo, thus I pray. LEADER Oh, call that wild prayer back! O King, take heed! I know that thou wilt live to rue this deed. THESEUS It may not be.--And more, I cast him out From all my realms. He shall be held about By two great dooms. Or by Poseidon's breath He shall fall swiftly to the house of Death; Or wandering, outcast, o'er strange land and sea, Shall live and drain the cup of misery. LEADER Ah; see! here comes he at the point of need. Shake off that evil mood, O King; have heed For all thine house and folk--Great Theseus, hear! [THESEUS _stands silent in fierce gloom._ HIPPOLYTUS _comes in from the right._] HIPPOLYTUS Father, I heard thy cry, and sped in fear To help thee, but I see not yet the cause That racked thee so. Say, Father, what it was. [_The murmurs in the crowd, the silent gloom of his Father, and the horror of the Chorus-women gradually work on_ HIPPOLYTUS _and bewilder him. He catches sight of the bier._] Ah, what is that! Nay, Father, not the Queen Dead! [_Murmurs in the crowd._] 'Tis most strange. 'Tis passing strange, I ween. 'Twas here I left her. Scarce an hour hath run Since here she stood and looked on this same sun. What is it with her? Wherefore did she die? [THESEUS _remains silent. The murmurs increase._] Father, to thee I speak. Oh, tell me, why, Why art thou silent? What doth silence know Of skill to stem the bitter flood of woe? And human hearts in sorrow crave the more, For knowledge, though the knowledge grieve them sore. It is not love, to veil thy sorrows in From one most near to thee, and more than kin. THESEUS (_to himself_) Fond race of men, so striving and so blind, Ten thousand arts and wisdoms can ye find, Desiring all and all imagining: But ne'er have reached nor understood one thing, To make a true heart there where no heart is! HIPPOLYTUS That were indeed beyond man's mysteries, To make a false heart true against his will. But why this subtle talk? It likes me ill, Father; thy speech runs wild beneath this blow.