accept this crown from a reverent hand.

For I alone of mortals have the privilege:

with you I stay, with you I talk,

I hear your voice,

although I do not see you.

So may my finish-line match my start.

[Enter (male) SERVANT from palace.]

SERVANT.

You are my prince but gods are our masters, all.

So will you accept some advice from me?

HIPPOLYTOS.

Yes. Or seem unwise.

SERVANT.

Do you know there is a law among men?

HIPPOLYTOS.

What law?

SERVANT.

To hate high pride and bad manners.

HIPPOLYTOS.

Of course, what proud man is not annoying?

SERVANT.

And is there some charm in being courteous?

HIPPOLYTOS.

Very much. And profit too.

SERVANT.

And would you expect the same among gods?

HIPPOLYTOS.

If mortals use gods’ laws.

SERVANT.

How is it then you refuse courtesy to a proud goddess?

HIPPOLYTOS.

Which goddess? Be careful.

SERVANT.

The goddess who stands at your gates. Aphrodite.

HIPPOLYTOS.

From afar I greet that one, since I am pure.

SERVANT.

Yet she is proud and important to men.

HIPPOLYTOS.

No god adored at night is pleasing to me.

SERVANT.

To honor gods, child, is an obligation.

HIPPOLYTOS.

Different men like different gods.

SERVANT.

I wish you good luck and good sense. You’ll need them.

HIPPOLYTOS.

Go, servants, into the house and to your supper.

Sweet after hunting is a full table.

My horses need a rubdown,

then after I’ve had my fill of food

I’ll yoke them and give them a run.

You, Aphrodite,

keep out of my way!

[Exit HIPPOLYTOS with attendants into palace.]

SERVANT.

We must not imitate the young in thoughts like these.

As becomes a slave, I shall bow

to your statue, Aphrodite be compassionate!

If someone who is stretched tight inside himself

talks reckless talk, best not to listen.

Gods should have more wisdom than men.

[Exit SERVANT into palace.]

[Enter CHORUS from both side entrances into orchestra.]

CHORUS. (Entrance song)

Water from the river Okeanos drips

down a certain rock

(so it is said) and

at its edge a stream

where pitchers are dipped.

There

someone I know

was soaking her redpurple robes

in river dew,

spreading them on flat rocks in the sun.

From her to me

first came the story of my lady

wasting herself on a bed of pain:

she hides her body

in the house,

covers her yellow hair.

Three days

(so I hear)

she is without food,

keeps her body

pure of bread, longs to

run herself aground

in a sad secret death.

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Deranged by Pan, by Hekate?

Or the holy mountain mother?

Or does Artemis, mistress of wild things,

devastate you?

For she ranges the lake

and the sand

near the sea and the wet salt places.

Or is it your husband, the king of Athens,

the highborn one—

is someone in your house coaxing him

to secret sex?

Or has some sailor out from Krete

brought to the queen