-- How hard for me, the splendor of this crown and robe, br amidst my shame -- br br br -- In stony Troezen will be an infamous calamity, br the royal staircase will grow red with disgrace, br . . . . . . . . . . . . br . . . . . . . . . . . . br and for the mother in love, br the black sun will rise. br br br -- O, if hate would boil in my breast -- br but see, the admission itself br has fallen from my lips. br br br -- Phedre burns in a black flame br in broad daylight. br The funeral torch fumes br in broad white daylight. br Dread your mother, Hippolytus: br Phedre -- night -- watche s over you br in broad white day. br br br -- I have stained the sun with black love . . . br Death from a bottle will cool my ardor -- br . . . . . . . . . . . . . . br br br -- We are afraid, we do not dare br relieve the king's grief. br Wounded by Theseus, night br fell upon him. But we, br with a funeral song bringing home the dead, br will pacify the black sun br of wild and sleepless passion.