|Jean Racine (16391699). Phædra.|
The Harvard Classics. 190914.
HIPPOLYTUS, NONE, THERAMENES
Alas, my lord, what grief was eer like mine?
|The queen has almost touchd the gates of death.|
|Vainly close watch I keep by day and night,|
|Een in my arms a secret malady|
|Slays her, and all her senses are disorderd.|| 5|
|Weary yet restless from her couch she rises,|
|Pants for the outer air, but bids me see|
|That no one on her misery intrudes.|
Enough. She shall not be disturbd,
|Nor be confronted with a face she hates.|