feared; as a monster to be avoided everywhere. My heart suffers
incredible grief at the sight of you; it is a torture that
overpowers me; I do not know anything under Heaven so frightful,
horrible and odious, that I could not better endure than you.

JUP. Alas! Do these words really come from your mouth?

ALC. I have many more in my heart; I only regret I cannot find words
to express all I feel.

JUP. Ah! What has my heart done to you, Alcmene, that I should be
looked upon as such a monster?

ALC. Oh! Just Heaven! He can 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.