The bride is dying in her robes, I know it. But since this path most piteous I tread, Sending them forth on paths more piteous far, I will embrace my children. Oh, my sons, Give, give your mother your dear hands to kiss! Oh, dearest hands, and mouths most dear to me, And forms and noble faces of my sons! Be happy even there: what here was yours, Your father robs you of. Oh, loved embrace! Oh, tender touch and sweet breath of my boys! Go, go, go, leave me! Lo, I cannot bear To look on you: my woes have overwhelmed me! Now know I all the ill I have to do: But rage is stronger than my better mind, Rage, cause of greatest crimes and griefs to mortals.[9] Phædra, the heroine of the _Hippolytus_, supplies us with a new conception of the same thirst for #eukleia#--the same #eupsychia, gennaiotês#, indifference to life when honor is at stake. The pride of her good name drives Phædra to a crime more detestable than Medea's, because her victim, Hippolytus, is eminently innocent. I do not want to dwell upon the pining sickness of Phædra, which Euripides has wrought with exquisitely painful details, but rather to call attention to Hippolytus. Side by side with the fever of Phædra is the pure fresh health of the hunter-hero. The scent of forest-glades, where he pursues the deer with Artemis, surrounds him; the sea-breeze from the sands, where he trains his horses, moves his curls. His piety is as untainted as his purity; it is the maiden-service of a maiden-saint. In his observance of the oath extorted from him by Phædra's nurse, in his obedience to his father's will, in his kindness to his servants, in his gentle endurance of a painful death, and in the joy with which he greets the virgin huntress when she comes to visit him, Euripides has firmly traced the ideal of a guileless, tranquil manhood. Hippolytus among the ancients was the Paladin of chastity, the Percival of their romance. Nor is any knight of mediæval legend more true and pure than he. Hippolytus first comes upon the stage with a garland of wild flowers for Artemis: Lady, for thee this garland have I woven Of wilding flowers plucked from an unshorn meadow, Where neither shepherd dares to feed his flock, Nor ever scythe hath swept, but through the mead Unshorn in spring the bee pursues her labors, And maiden modesty with running rills Waters the garden. Sweet queen, take my crown To deck thy golden hair: my hand is holy. To me alone of men belongs this honor, To be with thee and answer when thou speakest; Yea, for I hear thy voice but do not see thee. So may I end my life as I began.