Can fit thine heavy lot?
Gone like a wild bird, like a blowing flame,
In one swift gust, where all things are forgot!
Alas! this misery!
Sure 'tis some stroke of God's great anger rolled
From age to age on me,
For some dire sin wrought by dim kings of old.

LEADER
Sire, this great grief hath come to many an one,
A true wife lost. Thou art not all alone.

THESEUS
Deep, deep beneath the Earth,
Dark may my dwelling be,
And night my heart's one comrade, in the dearth,
O Love, of thy most sweet society.
This is my death, O Phaedra, more than thine.
[_He turns suddenly on the Attendants_.]
Speak who speak can! What was it? What malign
Swift stroke, O heart discounselled, leapt on thee?
[_He bends over_ PHAEDRA; _then, as no one speaks looks fiercely up_.]
What, will ye speak? Or are they dumb as death,
This herd of thralls, my high house harboureth?
[_There is no answer. He bends again over_ PHAEDRA.]

SOME WOMEN
Woe, woe! God brings to birth
A new grief here, close on the other's tread!
My life hath lost its worth.