OCTAVIA
A monologue from the
play by Seneca
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NOTE: This monologue is reprinted
from Seneca's Tragedy, v. ii. Trans. Frank Justus Miller.
New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1917. |
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OCTAVIA: Though I should endure what must be borne,
ne'er could my woes be ended, save by gloomy death. With my mother
slain, my father by crime snatched from me, robbed of my brother,
by wretchedness and grief o'erwhelmed, by sorrow crushed, by
my husband hated, and set beneath my slave, the sweet light brings
no joy to me; for my heart is ever trembling, not with the fear
of death, but of crime -- be crime but lacking to my misfortunes,
death will be delight. For 'tis a punishment far worse than death
to look in the tyrant's face, all swollen with rage 'gainst wretched
me, to kiss my foe, to fear his very nod, obedience to whom my
smarting grief could not endure after my brother's death, most
sinfully destroyed, whose throne he usurps, and rejoices in being
the worker of a death unspeakable. How oft does my brother's
sad shade appear before my eyes when rest has relaxed my body,
and sleep weighed down my eyes, weary with weeping. Now with
smoking torches he arms his feeble hands, and with deadly purpose
aims at his brother's eyes and face; and now in trembling fright
takes refuge in my chamber; his enemy pursues and, e'en while
the lad clings in my embrace, savagely he thrusts his sword through
both our bodies. Then trembling and mighty terror banish my slumbers,
and bring back to my wretched heart its grief and fear. Add to
all this the proud concubine, bedecked with our house's spoil,
as gift for whom the son set his own mother on the Stygian bark;
and, when she had o'ercome dread shipwreck and the sea, himself
more pitiless than ocean's waves, slew her with the sword. What
hope of safety, after crimes so great, have I? My victorious
foe threatens my chamber, blazes with hate of me, and, as the
reward of her adultery, demands of my husband his lawful consort's
head. Arise thou, my father, from the shades and bring help to
thy daughter who calls on thee; or else, rending the earth, lay
bare the Stygian abyss, that I may plunge thither headlong.
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MONOLOGUES BY SENECA |
