Racine: Phaedra

85©
CALDERON
Under the ashes of the lowest fortune
By which, when reason slumbers, or has lost
The reins of sensible comparison,
We fly at something higher than we are
Scarce ever dive to lower—to be kings.
Or conquerors, crown'd with laurel or with gold,
Nay, mounting heav'n itself on eagle wings.
Which, by the way, now that I think of it,
May furnish us the key to this high flight
That royal Eagle we were watching, and
Talking of as you went to sleep last night.
Segismund.—Last night? Last night?
Clotaldo.— Ay, do you not remember
Envying his immunity of flight.
As, rising from his throne of rock, he sail'd
Above the mountains far into the West,
That burn'd about him, while with poising wings
He darkled in it as a burning brand
Is seen to smoulder in the fire it feeds?
Segismund.—Last night—last night—Oh, what a day was that
Between that last night and this sad To-day
Clotaldo.—And yet, perhaps.
Only some few dark moments, into which
Imagination, once ht up within
And unconditional of time and space,
Can pour infinities.
Segismund.— And I remember
How the old man they call'd the King, who wore
The crown of gold about his silver hair.
And a mysterious girdle round his waist.
Just when my rage was roaring at its height,
And after which it all was dark again,
Bid me beware lest all should be a dream.
Clotaldo.—Ay—there another specialty of dreams,
That once the dreamer 'gins to dream he dreams.
His foot is on the very verge of waking.
Segismund.—Would it had been upon the verge of death
That knows no waking
Lifting me up to glory, to fall back,
Stunn'd, crippled—wretcheder than ev'n before.