HIPPOLYTUS, OENONE, THERAMENES

OENONE Alas, my lord, what grief was e'er like mine? The queen has almost touch'd the gates of death. Vainly close watch I keep by day and night, E'en in my arms a secret malady Slays her, and all her senses are disorder'd. Weary yet restless from her couch she rises, Pants for the outer air, but bids me see That no one on her misery intrudes. She comes. HIPPOLYTUS Enough. She shall not be disturb'd, Nor be confronted with a face she hates.