Medea of Euripides

Oh, let it come! All words of good or ill Are wasted now. [She claps her hands: the Nurse comes out from the house. Ho, woman; get thee gone And lead lord Jason hither. . . . There is none Like thee, to work me these high services. But speak no word of what my purpose is, As thou art faithful, thou, and bold to try All succours, and a woman even as I!

The sons of Erechtheus, the olden, Whom high gods planted of yore In an old land of heaven upholden, A proud land untrodden of war: They are hungered, and, lo, their desire With wisdom is fed as with meat: In their skies is a shining of fire, A joy in the fall of their feet: And thither, with manifold dowers, From the North, from the hills, from the morn, The Muses did gather their powers, That a child of the Nine should be born; And Harmony, sown as the flowers, Grew gold in the acres of corn. And Cephîsus, the fair-flowing river— The Cyprian dipping her hand Hath drawn of his dew, and the shiver Of her touch is as joy in the land. For her breathing in fragrance is written, And in music her path as she goes, And the cloud of her hair, it is litten With stars of the wind-woven rose. So fareth she ever and ever, And forth of her bosom is blown, As dews on the winds of the river, An hunger of passions unknown. Strong Loves of all godlike endeavour, Whom Wisdom shall throne on her throne.

But Cephîsus the fair-flowing, Will he bear thee on his shore? Shall the land that succours all, succour thee, Who art foul among thy kind, With the tears of children blind? Dost thou see the red gash growing, Thine own burden dost thou see? Every side, Every way, Lo, we kneel to thee and pray: By thy knees, by thy soul, O woman wild! One at least thou canst not slay, Not thy child!

Hast thou ice that thou shalt bind it To thy breast, and make thee dead To thy children, to thine own spirit's pain? When the hand knows what it dares, When thine eyes look into theirs, Shalt thou keep by tears unblinded Thy dividing of the slain? These be deeds Not for thee: These be things that cannot be! Thy babes—though thine hardihood be fell, When they cling about thy knee, 'Twill be well!

Jason, I pray thee, for my words but now Spoken, forgive me. My bad moods. . . . Oh, thou At least wilt strive to bear with them! There be Many old deeds of love 'twixt me and thee. Lo, I have reasoned with myself apart And chidden: "Why must I be mad, O heart Of mine: and raging against one whose word Is wisdom: making me a thing abhorred To them that rule the land, and to mine own Husband, who doth but that which, being done, Will help us all—to wed a queen, and get Young kings for brethren to my sons? And yet I rage alone, and cannot quit my rage— What aileth me?—when God sends harbourage So simple? Have I not my children? Know I not we are but exiles, and must go Beggared and friendless else?" Thought upon thought So pressed me, till I knew myself full-fraught With bitterness of heart and blinded eyes. So now—I give thee thanks: and hold thee wise To have caught this anchor for our aid. The fool Was I; who should have been thy friend, thy tool; Gone wooing with thee, stood at thy bed-side Serving, and welcomed duteously thy bride. But, as we are, we are—I will not say Mere evil—women! Why must thou to-day Turn strange, and make thee like some evil thing, Childish, to meet my childish passioning? See, I surrender: and confess that then I had bad thoughts, but now have turned again And found my wiser mind. [She claps her hands. Ho, children! Run Quickly! Come hither, out into the sun, [The Children come from the house, followed by their Attendant. And greet your father. Welcome him with us, And throw quite, quite away, as mother does, Your anger against one so dear.

Our peace Is made, and all the old bad war shall cease For ever.—Go, and take his hand. . . . [As the Children go to Jason, she suddenly bursts into tears. The Children quickly return to her: she recovers herself, smiling amid her tears. Ah me, I am full of hidden horrors! . . . Shall it be A long time more, my children, that ye live To reach to me those dear, dear arms? . . . Forgive! I am so ready with my tears to-day, And full of dread. . . . I sought to smooth away The long strife with your father, and, lo, now I have all drowned with tears this little brow!

Woman, indeed I praise thee now, nor say Ill of thine other hour. 'Tis nature's way, A woman needs must stir herself to wrath, When work of marriage by so strange a path Crosseth her lord. But thou, thine heart doth wend The happier road. Thou hast seen, ere quite the end, What choice must needs be stronger: which to do Shows a wise-minded woman. . . . And for you, Children; your father never has forgot Your needs. If God but help him, he hath wrought A strong deliverance for your weakness. Yea, I think you, with your brethren, yet one day Shall be the mightiest voices in this land. Do you grow tall and strong. Your father's hand Guideth all else, and whatso power divine Hath alway helped him. . . . Ah, may it be mine To see you yet in manhood, stern of brow, Strong-armed, set high o'er those that hate me. . . . How? Woman, thy face is turned. Thy cheek is swept With pallor of strange tears. Dost not accept Gladly and of good will my benisons?

I was their mother! When I heard thy prayer Of long life for them, there swept over me A horror, wondering how these things shall be. But for the matter of my need that thou Should speak with me, part I have said, and now Will finish.—Seeing it is the king's behest To cast me out from Corinth . . . aye, and best, Far best, for me—I know it—not to stay Longer to trouble thee and those who sway The realm, being held to all their house a foe. . . . Behold, I spread my sails, and meekly go To exile. But our children. . . . Could this land Be still their home awhile: could thine own hand But guide their boyhood. . . . Seek the king, and pray His pity, that he bid thy children stay!