JOCASTE.
Nay, think not that my heart
Still nourishes a guilty passion for him;
I conquered that long since; yet, dear Ægina,
Howe'er the soul may act which virtue guides,
Its secret motions, nature's children, still
Must force their way: they will not be subdued,
But in the folds and windings of the heart,
Lurk still, and rush upon us; hid in fires
We thought extinguished, from their ashes rise:
In the hard conflict, rigid virtue may
Resist the passions, but can ne'er destroy them.
ÆGINA.
How just, and yet how noble is thy grief!
Such sentiments!
JOCASTE.
Jocaste is most wretched;
Thou knowest my miseries, and thou knowest my heart,
Ægina: twice hath Hymen lit his torch
For me, and twice hath changed my slavery,
For such it was; the only man I loved,
Torn from my arms. Forgive me, ye just gods,
The sad remembrance of a conquered passion.
Ægina, thou wert witness of our loves,
Those ties, alas! dissolved as soon as made:
Then Œdipus, my sovereign, sought and gained me,
Spite of myself. I took the diadem,
Begirt with sorrows. To forget the past
Became my duty then; and I obeyed.
Thou knowest I stifled every tender thought
Of my first love, disguised an aching heart,
Drank up my tears, and even from myself
Strove to conceal my griefs.
