n ask that? Is it not enough to drive me mad?

JUP. Yet, in a milder spirit...

ALC. No; I do not wish either to see or to hear anything of you.

JUP. Have you really the heart to treat me thus? Is this the tender love
which I heard yesterday was to last so long?

ALC. No, no, it is not; your base insults have ordained it otherwise.
That passionate and tender love does not exist any longer; you have
cruelly killed it in my heart by a hundred keen wounds. In its
place stands an inflexible wrath, a lively resentment, an invincible
indignation, the despair of a heart justly incensed, which resolves to
hate you for this grievous injury, as much as it was willing to love
you; that is to say to hate as much as possible.

JUP. Alas! Your love must have had but little strength, if it can be
killed by so slight a matter! Can a jest divorce us? Is there any need
to be so roused at a trifle?

ALC. Ah! It is just that which offends me: that which my anger cannot
pardon. I should have felt less wounded by the justifiable transports
of a fit of jealousy. Jealousy makes impressions the force of which
oftentimes carries us beyond our control; at such times the most
discreet mind, no doubt, finds it difficult enough to answer for its
deeds. The violence of a heart which may have been deluded has, in its
very delusion, a peace-offering for an aggrieved soul, and the love that
gave birth to its fears, furnishes, in spite of all its violence, at
least some reasons to urge as excuse. Outbursts such as these ever have
love as an excuse against anger: for love gave birth to them, and we can
easily pardon what we cannot control.

But to fly into uncontrollable fury, in gaiety of heart, and so
causelessly and keenly to wound the tenderness and honour of a heart
that dearly loves you, ah! It is too cruel a blow: my grief can never
forget it.

JUP. Yes, you are right, Alcmene; I admit it. This action is
unquestionably an odious crime; I do not pretend to justify it longer:
yet allow my heart to defend itself in your eyes, and let it reveal to
you who is to blame for this insulting fury. To tell you frankly, it is
the husband Alcmene, who has done this wrong; it is the husband whom you
must blame. The lover has no share in this churlish anger: his heart is
not capable of offending you. He has too much respect and affection for
you ever to think of it; had he been guilty of the crime of doing aught
that could wound you, he would pierce him