My mind is settled, dear Theramenes, And I can stay no more in lovely Troezen.

In doubt that racks my soul with mortal anguish, I grow ashamed of such long idleness.

Six months and more my father has been gone, And what may have befallen one so dear I know not, nor what corner of the earth Hides him.

THERAMENES

And where, prince, will you look for him?

Already, to content your just alarm, Have I not cross'd the seas on either side Of Corinth, ask'd if aught were known of Theseus Where Acheron is lost among the Shades, Visited Elis, doubled Toenarus, And sail'd into the sea that saw the fall Of Icarus? Inspired with what new hope, Under what favour'd skies think you to trace His footsteps? Who knows if the King, your father, Wishes the secret of his absence known?

Perchance, while we are trembling for his life, The hero calmly plots some fresh intrigue, And only waits till the deluded fair--HIPPOLYTUS

Cease, dear Theramenes, respect the name Of Theseus. Youthful errors have been left Behind, and no unworthy obstacle Detains him. Phaedra long has fix'd a heart Inconstant once, nor need she fear a rival.

In seeking him I shall but do my duty, And leave a place I dare no longer see.

THERAMENES

Indeed! When, prince, did you begin to dread These peaceful haunts, so dear to happy childhood, Where I have seen you oft prefer to stay, Rather than meet the tumult and the pomp Of Athens and the court? What danger shun you, Or shall I say what grief?

HIPPOLYTUS

That happy time Is gone, and all is changed, since to these shores The gods sent Phaedra.

THERAMENES

I perceive the cause Of your distress. It is the queen whose sight Offends you. With a step-dame's spite she schemed Your exile soon as she set eyes on you.

But if her hatred is not wholly vanish'd, It has at least taken a milder aspect.

Besides, what danger can a dying woman, One too who longs for death, bring on your head?

Can Phaedra, sick'ning of a dire disease Of which she will not speak, weary of life And of herself, form any plots against you?

HIPPOLYTUS

It is not her vain enmity I fear, Another foe alarms Hippolytus.

I fly, it must be own'd, from young Aricia, The sole survivor of an impious race.

THERAMENES

What! You become her persecutor too!

The gentle sister of the cruel sons Of Pallas shared not in their perfidy;

Why should you hate such charming innocence?

HIPPOLYTUS

I should not need to fly, if it were hatred.

THERAMENES

May I, then, learn the meaning of your flight?

Is this the proud Hippolytus I see, Than whom there breathed no fiercer foe to love And to that yoke which Theseus has so oft Endured? And can it be that Venus, scorn'd So long, will justify your sire at last?

Has she, then, setting you with other mortals, Forced e'en Hippolytus to offer incense Before her? Can you love?

HIPPOLYTUS

Friend, ask me not.