Phèdre

Innocence has nothing to dread.

Crime, like virtue, has its degrees;

And timid innocence was never known

To blossom suddenly into extreme license.

Ariane, my sister, wounded by what love,

You died on the shores where you were abandoned.

All afflicts and injures me, and conspires to my injury.

It is no longer a passion hidden in my heart:

It is Venus herself fastened to her prey.

You have named him, not I.