Nurse: Why, why, my child, these anxious cares? What hast thou to
do with the chase? Why so eager for the flowing spring, when hard
by these towers stands a hill well watered, whence thou may'st freely
draw?
Phaedra: O Artemis, who watchest o'er sea-beat Limna and the race-course
thundering to the horse's hoofs, would I were upon thy plains curbing
Venetian steeds!
Nurse: Why betray thy frenzy in these wild whirling words? Now thou
wert for hasting hence to the hills away to hunt wild beasts, and
now thy yearning is to drive the steed over the waveless sands. This
needs a cunning seer to say what god it is that reins thee from the
course, distracting thy senses, child.
Phaedra: (more sanely) Ah me! alas! what have I done? Whither have
I strayed, my senses leaving? Mad, mad! stricken by some demon's curse!
Woe is me! Cover my head again, nurse. Shame fills me for the words
I have spoken. Hide me then; from my eyes the tear-drops stream, and
for very shame I turn them away. 'Tis painful coming to one's senses
again, and madness, evil though it be, has this advantage, that one
has no knowledge of reason's overthrow.