Even in this bald translation some of the fresh morning feeling, as of cool fields and living waters, and pure companionship and a heart at peace, transpires. Throughout the play, in spite of the usual Euripidean blemishes of smart logic-chopping and pragmatical sententiousness, this impression is maintained. Hippolytus moves through it with the athletic charm that belongs to such statues as that of Meleager and his dog in the Vatican. At the end the young hero is carried from the sea-beach, mangled, and panting out his life amid intolerable pain and fever-thirst. His lamentations are loud and deep as he calls on Death the healer. Then suddenly is he aware of the presence of Artemis: Oh, breath and perfume of the goddess! Lo, I feel thee even in torment, and am eased! Here in this place is Artemis the queen. The scent of the forest coolness has been blown upon him. His death will now be calm. _A._ Poor man! she is; the goddess thou most loved. _H._ Seest thou me, lady, in what plight I lie? _A._ I see thee; but I may not drop a tear. _H._ Thou hast no huntsman and no servant now. _A._ Nay, truly, since thou diest, dear my friend. _H._ No groom, no guardian of thy sculptured shrine. _A._ 'Twas Kupris, the arch-fiend, who wrought this woe. _H._ Ah, me! Now know I what god made me die. _A._ Shorn of her honor, vexed with thy chaste life. _H._ Three of us her one spite--behold! hath slain. _A._ Thy father, and his wife, and thirdly thee. _H._ Yea, and I therefore mourn my sire's ill hap. _A._ Snared was he by a goddess's deceit. _H._ Oh! for your sorrow in this woe, my father! _T._ Son! I have perished: life has now no joy. _H._ I mourn this error more for you than me. _T._ Would, son, I were a corpse instead of you. _A._ Stay! for though earth and gloom encircle thee, Not even thus the anger unavenged Of Kupris shall devour at will thy body: For I, with my own hand, to pay for thee, Will pierce of men him whom she mostly dotes on, With these inevitable shafts. But thou, As guerdon for thine anguish, shalt henceforth Gain highest honors in Troezenian land, My gift. Unwedded maids before their bridals Shall shear their locks for thee, and thou forever Shalt reap the harvest of unnumbered tears. Yea, and for aye, with lyre and song the virgins Shall keep thy memory; nor shall Phædra's love For thee unnamed fall in oblivious silence. But thou, O son of aged Ægeus, take Thy child within thy arms and cherish him; For without guile thou slewest him, and men, When the gods lead, may well lapse into error. Thee too I counsel; hate not thy own father, Hippolytus: 'twas fate that ruined thee.