This last of thy three boons I would not use, 950 If I were not beset by grievous ills. Amidst the depths of hell and dreadful Dis, Amidst the infernal king's pursuing threats, I did not call on thee. But now I claim Thy promise, father. Why delay thine aid? Why are thy waves inactive? Let the winds 955 That drive the blackening clouds bring darkness on; Snatch stars and sky from sight; pour forth the sea; Arouse thy watery monsters, and let loose On him from ocean's depths thy swelling waves. [_Exit_ Theseus.] _Chorus_: Great nature, mother of the gods, And thou, fire-girt Olympus' lord, 960 Who speedest through the flying skies The scattered stars, the wandering ways Of constellations, and the heavens Upon their whirling axes turn'st: Why is thy care so great to keep The annual highways of the air, 965 That now the hoary frosts may strip The woods of leaves, and now the trees May spread once more their pleasant shade; That now the summer's fervent heat May ripen Ceres' gift, and soon 970 Her strength the Autumn may subdue? But why, though thou dost rule so wide, Though in thy hand the ponderous worlds Are poised, and calmly wheel along Their appointed ways, why dost thou shun The affairs of men and have no care For them? Art not solicitous 975 That good should prosper, and that sin Receive its just deserts? But no: Blind Fortune rules the affairs of men, Dispensing with unthinking hand Her gifts, oft favoring the worst. 980 And so the violent oppress The innocent; and fraud holds sway In highest places. To the hands Of brutish men the rabble most Rejoice to trust their government; The same they honor and they hate, With fickle will. Sad virtue finds Her recompense for righteousness All gone away; and poverty, 985 Relentless, follows innocence; While, deep intrenched in wickedness, The adulterer sits secure, and reigns. O modesty--an empty name! And worth--a glorious cheat! But what would yonder messenger announce, Who comes in haste, with woeful countenance? 990 ACT IV [_Enter_ Messenger.] _Messenger:_ O slavery, thou hard and bitter lot, Why must I voice these woes unspeakable? _Theseus:_ Fear not, but boldly tell the worst mischance; For mine a heart not unprepared for grief. _Messenger:_ My tongue can find no words to voice its woe. 955 _Theseus:_ But speak, what evil fortune still besets My shattered house? _Messenger:_ Hippolytus is dead!