cypris

APHRODITE

Everyone knows me. I'm Cypris, the goddess.
Sex and desire, my specialties, draw men
helpless from Pontus to Heracles' Pillars.
Those that delight in me, I can reward them;
those that detest me will harvest my hatred.
Even immortals get caught in my soft snares.
Goddesses love it when worshipers gather.
Listen: I'll prove that this very hour.
There is a fellow, King Theseus' young son,
huntsman Hippolytus, lover of horses,
born of an Amazon lady in Athens.
Grandfather Pittheus raised the boy here in
Troezen because of his unmarried mother.
Hates me, this fellow. The thought of me sickens.
Hates love's bed, scorns pleasures of marriage,
worships instead prim Artemis, huntress,
Phoebus' sister and Zeus' proud daughter;
says she's the sacredest thing in the heavens.
Never can leave her, adores her, his maiden.
There with his dogs hunts beasts in the forest,
he and his she-spirit blessing each other.
Why should that bother me? Why should I mind that?
Well, my Hippolytus, you shall pay dear, dear.
All is prepared, and the path lies open.
Not that I'll work very hard at it, mind you.
Oh, it was years ago now when it started.
Theseus, bringing a sexy new consort,
Phaedra dear, home to his kingdom in Athens,
thought: now what of Hippolytus, young boy
got on that Amazon lady I mentioned?
That's when he sent him to grandfather Pittheus
here to be raised as the ruler of Troezen.
But, as it happened, he went back to Athens
once, to take part in the mysteries held there.
Phaedra caught sight of him, heart in her throbbing
shamefully: she was the wife of his father,
she, proud ladyship, gripped in a raging
criminal lust for him. That was my doing.
Then, before coming to Troezen herself, she
built me a shrine on a storm-lashed headland,
visible here in the city, and called it,
"Love from afar," for Hippolytus: wishes.
("Goddess, be seated!" our aftertimes call it.)
Meanwhile Theseus, dealing with uncles,
shed much blood, so he took a vacation,
hoping for calm, and he moved his young family
here, where Hippolytus lives. Here Phaedra
wastes away, stung by her furious longings,
dies of them, agonized; dares, though, no word
breathe of it, guiltily hoarding her sickness.
Terrified servants in wonderment whisper.
Ah, but the truth of it's sure to get out soon,

Theseus hear of it ... that I will see to.
Oh then loudly he'll cry to Poseidon,
call down curses the Sea God promised,
down on that hateful Hippolytus, sweep him
deep under earth ... poor Phaedra, devoted ...
Oh what a pity! for she will die also,
nevertheless with her name unsullied;
still, she must die. How else can my proud foes
learn that it's most unwise to insult me?

Look there: Theseus' boy is approaching,
beautiful man, and his hunting is over,
lordly Hippolytus. Best that I leave now.
Followers come with him, raising their clamor,
filling the day with his Artemis ditties.
Hasn't a clue that the Underworld's waiting.
This day's light won't end till it ends him.
(Exit. Enter Hippolytus and huntsmen.)