he language, than a poet more acquainted with the
workings of the heart would have done. We shall give an example to
illustrate this observation. When Theseus reproaches Hippolitus for
his love to Ismena, and at the same time dooms him as the victim, of
his revenge and jealousy, he uses these words,

Canst thou be only clear'd by disobedience,
And justified by crimes?--What! love my foe!
Love one descended from a race of tyrants,
Whose blood yet reeks on my avenging sword!
I'm curst each moment I delay thy fate:
Haste to the shades, and tell, the happy Pallas,
Ismena's flames, and let him taste such joys
As thou giv'st me; go tell applauding Minos,
The pious love you bore his daughter Phaedra;
Tell it the chatt'ring ghosts, and hissing furies,
Tell it the grinning fiends, till Hell found nothing
To thy pleas'd ears, but Phaedra and Ismena.

We cannot suppose that a man wrought up to fury, by the flame of
jealousy, and a sense of afronted dignity, could be so particular in
giving his son directions how to behave in hell, and to whom he should
relate the story of his fate. When any passion violently overwhelms
the soul, the person who feels it, always speaks sententiously, avoids
repetitions, and is not capable of much recollection, at least of
making a minute detail of circumstances. In how few words, and with
greater force would Shakespear have conduced this speech of Theseus.
An example will prove it: when Othello is informed that Cassio is
slain, he replies,

Had all his hairs been lives,
My great revenge had stomach for them all.

When Phaedra is made acquainted with the ruin of Hyppolitus, the poet
makes her utter the following beautiful speech, which, however, is
liable to the same objection as the former, for it seems rather a
studied declamation, than an expression of the most agonizing throes
she is then supposed to experience.

What's life? Oh all ye Gods! can life attone
For all the monstrous crimes by which 'tis bought?
Or can I live? when thou, O Soul of honour!
O early hero! by my crimes art ruin'd.
Perhaps even now, the great unhappy youth,
Falls by the sordid hands of butchering villains;
Now, now he bleeds, he dies,--O perjur'd traitor!
See his rich blood in purple torrents flows,
And nature sallies in unbidden groans;
Now mortal pangs distort his lovely form,
His rosy beauties fade, his starry eyes
Now darkling swim, and fix their closing