Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/199

Rh Fresh robes. She has no care for food or health. With failing strength she walks, with aimless feet. Her old-time strength is gone; no longer shines The ruddy glow of health upon her face. Care feeds upon her limbs; her trembling steps Betray her weakness, and the tender grace Of her once blooming beauty is no more, Her eyes, which once with Phoebus' brilliance shone, No longer gleam with their ancestral fires. Her tears flow ever, and her cheeks are wet With constant rain; as when, on Taurus' top, The snows are melted by a warming shower. But look, the palace doors are opening, And she, reclining on her couch of gold, And sick of soul, refuses one by one The customary garments of her state. Phaedra: Remove, ye slaves, those bright and gold-wrought robes; Away with Tyrian purple, and the webs Of silk whose threads the far-off eastern tribes From leaves of trees collect. Gird high my robes; I'll wear no necklace, nor shall snowy pearls, The gift of Indian seas, weigh down my ears. No nard from far Assyria shall scent My locks; thus loosely tossing let them fall Around my neck and shoulders; let them stream Upon the wind, by my swift running stirred. Upon my left I'll wear a quiver girt, And in my right hand will I brandish free A hunting-spear of Thessaly; for thus The mother of Hippolytus was clad. So did she lead her hosts from the frozen shores Of Pontus, when to Attica she came, From distant Tanaïs or Maeotis' banks, Her comely locks down flowing from a knot, Her side protected by a crescent shield. Like her would I betake me to the woods. Chorus: Cease thy laments, for grief will not avail The wretched. Rather seek to appease the will Of that wild virgin goddess of the woods.