May Zeus, my sire,
Blast and uproot thee! Stab thee dead with fire!
Said I not--Knew I not thine heart?--to name
To no one soul this that is now my shame?
And thou couldst not be silent! So no more
I die in honour. But enough; a store
Of new words must be spoke and new things thought.
This man's whole being to one blade is wrought
Of rage against me. Even now he speeds
To abase me to the King with thy misdeeds;
Tell Pittheus; fill the land with talk of sin!
Cursed be thou, and whoso else leaps in
To bring bad aid to friends that want it not.
[_The_ NURSE _has raised herself, and faces_ PHAEDRA,
_downcast but calm_.]

NURSE
Mistress, thou blamest me; and all thy lot
So bitter sore is, and the sting so wild,
I bear with all. Yet, if I would, my Child,
I have mine answer, couldst thou hearken aught.
I nursed thee, and I love thee; and I sought
Only some balm to heal thy deep despair,
And found--not what I sought for. Else I were
Wise, and thy friend, and good, had all sped right.
So fares it with us all in the world's sight.

PHAEDRA
First stab me to the heart, then humour me
With words! 'Tis fair; 'tis all as it should be!