Is that the form of Phaedra that I see
Hurried away? What mean these signs of sorrow?
Where is your sword? Why are you pale, confused?
Friend, let us fly. I am, indeed, confounded
With horror and astonishment extreme.
Phaedra — but no; gods, let this dreadful secret
Remain for ever buried in oblivion.
The ship is ready if you wish to sail.
But Athens has already giv'n her vote;
Their leaders have consulted all her tribes;
Your brother is elected, Phaedra wins.
A herald, charged with a commission
From Athens, has arrived to place the reins
Of power in her hands. Her son is King.
Ye gods, who know her, do ye thus reward
A faint rumour meanwhile whispers
That Theseus is not dead, but in Epirus
Has shown himself. But, after all my search,
I know too well —
Let nothing be neglected.
This rumour must be traced back to its source.
If it be found unworthy of belief,
Let us set sail, and cost whate'er it may,
To hands deserving trust the sceptre's sway.