_Nurse:_ O wife of Theseus, glorious child of Jove, Drive from thy modest breast these shameful thoughts. 130 Put out these flames; and give thyself no hope Of such dire love as this. Whoe'er at first Has set himself to fight and conquer love, A safe and easy victory finds. But he, Who dallies with its evil sweets, too late Refuses to endure the galling yoke 135 Which he himself has placed upon his neck. I know full well how scornful of the truth, How harsh the swollen pride of princesses, How it refuses to be bent aright. Whatever outcome chance allots, I'll bear; For dawning freedom makes the agéd brave. To will to live uprightly nor to fall 140 From virtue's ways is best; but next to this Is sense of shame, the knowing when to stop A sinful course. What, pray, will be the end For thee, poor mistress? Why dost heap thy house With further infamy? Wouldst thou outsin Thy mother? For thy impious love is worse Than her unnatural and monstrous love. The first you would impute to character, The last to fate. If, since thy husband sees 145 No more the realms of earth, thou dost believe That this thy sin is safe and free from fear, Thou art in error. Grant that he is held Imprisoned fast in Lethe's lowest depths, And must forever feel the bonds of Styx: Would he, thy sire, who by his spreading sway Encroaches on the sea, who gives their laws 150 Unto a hundred peoples, e'er permit So great a crime as this to lie unknown? Keen is a parent's watchful care. And yet, Suppose that by our craft and guile we hide This crime from him: what of thy mother's sire, Who floods the earth with his illuming rays? 155 And what of him who makes the earth to quake, The bolts of Aetna flashing in his hand, The father of the gods? And dost thou think That it can be that thou couldst hide thy sin From these thy grandsires, all-beholding ones? But even should the favor of the gods, Complaisant, hide thy shame from all the world; 160 Though to thy lust alone should fall that grace Denied to other crimes: still must thou fear. What of that ever-present punishment, The terror of the soul that knows its guilt, Is stained with crime and fearful of itself? Some women have with safety sinned, but none With peace of soul. Then quench these flames, I pray, 165 Of impious love, and shun this monstrous crime Which no barbaric land has ever done, No Getan wandering on his lonely plains, No savage Taurian, no Scythian. Expel from thy chaste soul this hideous thing, And, mindful of thy mother's sin, avoid 170 Such monstrous unions. Wouldst in marriage give Thyself to son and father? Wouldst thou take In thine incestuous womb a progeny