_Phaedra:_ The name of mother is too proud and high; My heart dictates some humbler name than that. 610 Pray call me sister--slave, Hippolytus. Yes, slave I'd be. I'll bear all servitude; And shouldst thou bid me tread the driven snows, To walk along high Pindus' frozen peaks, I'd not refuse; no, not if thou shouldst bid Me go through fire, and serried ranks of foes, 615 I would not hesitate to bare my breast Unto the naked swords. Take thou the power Which was consigned to me. Make me thy slave. Rule thou the state, and let me subject be. It is no woman's task to guard this realm Of many towns. Do thou, who in the flower 620 Of youth rejoicest, rule the citizens With strong paternal sway. But me receive Into thy arms, and there protect thy slave And suppliant. My widowhood relieve. _Hippolytus:_ May God on high this omen dark avert! My father will in safety soon return. _Phaedra:_ Not so: the king of that fast-holding realm 625 And silent Styx has never opened back The doors of earth to those who once have left The realms above. Think'st thou that he will loose The ravisher of his couch? Unless, indeed, Grim Pluto has at last grown mild to love. _Hippolytus:_ The righteous gods of heaven will bring him back. But while the gods still hold our prayers in doubt, 630 My brothers will I make my pious care, And thee as well. Think not thou art bereft; For I will fill for thee my father's place. _Phaedra_ [_aside_]: Oh, hope of lovers, easily beguiled! Deceitful love! Has he[21] not said enough? 635 I'll ply him now with prayers. [_To_ Hippolytus.] Oh, pity me. Hear thou the prayers which I must only think. I long to utter them, but am ashamed. _Hippolytus:_ What is thy trouble then? _Phaedra:_ A trouble mine, Which thou wouldst scarce believe could vex the soul Of any stepdame. _Hippolytus:_ Speak more openly; In doubtful words thy meaning thou dost wrap. _Phaedra:_ My maddened heart with burning love is scorched; 640 My inmost marrow is devoured with love; And through my veins and vitals steals the fire, As when the flames through roomy holds of ships Run darting. 645 _Hippolytus:_ Surely with a modest love For Theseus thou dost burn.