A little word, a sigh, or glance betrays us;
Our very silence shall be made to speak
Our thoughts; and when their busy artifice,
Spite of ourselves, hath drawn the secret from us,
Then their loud censures cast invidious light
O'er all our actions, and the instructed world
Is quickly taught to echo every weakness.
ÆGINA.
But what hast thou to fear from calumny?
What piercing eye can wound Jocaste's fame?
Who knows thy love, will know thy conquest o'er it;
Will know thy virtue still supported thee.
JOCASTE.
It is that virtue which distresses me;
I look, perhaps, with too severe an eye
On my own weakness, and accuse myself
Unjustly; but the image still remains
Of Philoctetes, engraved within my heart
Too deep for time or virtue to efface it;
And much I doubt, if when I strive to save him,
I act not less from justice than from love:
My pity hath too much of tenderness;
I tremble oft, and oft reproach myself
For my fond care; I could be more his friend,
If he had been less dear to me.
ÆGINA.
But say,
Is it your will that he depart?
JOCASTE.
It is:
And O! if he would listen to Jocaste,
Never return, never behold me more;
Fly from this fatal, this distressful scene,
