self with a hundred stabs
before your eyes. But the husband has cast aside that humble submission
which should always be yours; by his harsh deeds, the husband has made
himself known; he thought the rights of marriage allowed him everything.
Yes, it is he no doubt who is guilty towards you; he only has
ill-treated your lovely person. Hate, detest the husband; I consent to
it; I yield him to your mercy; but, Alcmene, spare the lover from
the anger which such an offence gives you; do not let him suffer;
differentiate between him and the guilty one; and, finally, in order to
be just, do not punish him for what he has not done.

ALC. Oh! All these subtleties are but frivolous excuses; such language
only annoys incensed minds. In vain do you use these ridiculous
prevarications. I do not make any distinction in him who offends me;
everything in him becomes the object of my anger, the lover and the
husband are alike confounded in its just violence. Both occupy my
thoughts; both are painted in the same colours by my wounded heart. Both
are guilty; both have offended me; and both are odious to me.

JUP. Well! Then, since you wish it, I must charge myself with the
offence. Yes, you are right, when you sacrifice me as a guilty victim to
your resentment. Anger towards me sways you; it is but too just, and all
the terrible wrath you show causes me to suffer only lawful torments. It
is right you should shun my presence, and in your anger threaten to flee
from me everywhere. I must be a detestable object to you; you are right
in thinking ill of me. My crime in being offensive in your charming
eyes surpasses every horror; it is a crime that offends men and Gods; in
short, as punishment for my insolence I deserve that your hatred should
vent its utmost upon me. I beg your forgiveness, I beg it upon my knees,
I beg it for the sake of the most lively passion, of the tenderest love
for you, which has ever been kindled in a human breast. If, charming
Alcmene, your heart refuses me the pardon which I have the audacity to
seek, then shall a well-aimed stroke put an end to my life, and release
me from the harsh severity of a penalty which I can no longer bear. Yes,
this state of things drives me to despair. Do not think, Alcmene, that,
enamoured as I am of your celestial charms, I can live a day under your
wrath. Even these moments' agony is barbarously prolonged and my sad
heart sinks under their mortal blows. The cruel wounds of a thousand