Nay, but this god hath cause enow to smite; If he will slay me, baring breast and throat, I lean toward the stroke with silent mouth And a great heart. Come, take thy sword and slay; Let me not starve between desire and death, But send me on my way with glad wet lips; For in the vein-drawn ashen-coloured palm Death's hollow hand holds water of sweet draught To dip and slake dried mouths at, as a deer Specked red from thorns laps deep and loses pain. Yea, if mine own blood ran upon my mouth, I would drink that. Nay, but be swift with me; Set thy sword here between the girdle and breast, For I shall grow a poison if I live. Are not my cheeks as grass, my body pale, And my breath like a dying poisoned man's? O whatsoever of godlike names thou be, By thy chief name I charge thee, thou strong god, And bid thee slay me. Strike, up to the gold, Up to the hand-grip of the hilt; strike here; For I am Cretan of my birth; strike now; For I am Theseus' wife; stab up to the rims, I am born daughter to Pasiphae. See thou spare not for greatness of my blood, Nor for the shining letters of my name: Make thy sword sure inside thine hand and smite, For the bright writing of my name is black, And I am sick with hating the sweet sun. HIPPOLYTUS. Let not this woman wail and cleave to me, That am no part of the gods' wrath with her; Loose ye her hands from me lest she take hurt. CHORUS. Lady, this speech and majesty are twain; Pure shame is of one counsel with the gods. HIPPOLYTUS. Man is as beast when shame stands off from him. PHÆDRA. Man, what have I to do with shame or thee? I am not of one counsel with the gods. I am their kin, I have strange blood in me, I am not of their likeness nor of thine: My veins are mixed, and therefore am I mad, Yea therefore chafe and turn on mine own flesh, Half of a woman made with half a god. But thou wast hewn out of an iron womb And fed with molten mother-snow for milk. A sword was nurse of thine; Hippolyta, That had the spear to father, and the axe To bridesman, and wet blood of sword-slain men For wedding-water out of a noble well, Even she did bear thee, thinking of a sword, And thou wast made a man mistakingly. Nay, for I love thee, I will have thy hands, Nay, for I will not loose thee, thou art sweet, Thou art my son, I am thy father's wife, I ache toward thee with a bridal blood, The pulse is heavy in all my married veins, My whole face beats, I will feed full of thee, My body is empty of ease, I will be fed, I am burnt to the bone with love, thou shalt not go, I am heartsick, and mine eyelids prick mine eyes, Thou shalt not sleep nor eat nor say a word Till thou hast slain me. I am not good to live. CHORUS. This is an evil born with all its teeth, When love is cast out of the bound of love. HIPPOLYTUS. There is no hate that is so hateworthy. PHÆDRA.