Nikias.
Did you mark that? Jason speaks low and smooth;
Yet there is that within his level tones,
And in the icy drooping of his lids
(More than his words, tho’ they are harsh enough),
Tells me he hates her.
Ægeus.
Hush! Medea speaks.
Medea.
O gods, gods; ye have cursed me in this gift!
Is it for this, for this that I have striven?
Have wrestled in the darkness? wept my tears?
Have fought with sweet desires and hopes and thoughts?
Have watched when men were sleeping? for long days
Have shunned the sunlight and the breaths of Heaven?
Is it for this, for this that I have prayed
Long prayers, poured out with blood and cries and tears?
Lo, I who strove for strength have grown more weak
Than is the weakest. I have poured the sap
Of all my being, my life’s very life,
Before a thankless godhead; and am grown
No woman, but a monster. What avail
Charms, spells and potions, all my hard-won arts,
My mystic workings, seeing they cannot win
One little common spark of human love?
O gods, gods, ye have cursed me in this gift!
More should ye have withheld or more have giv’n;
Have fashioned me more weak or else more strong.
Behold me now, your work, a thing of fear—
From natural human fellowship cut off,
And yet a woman—sick and sore with pain;
Hungry for love and music of men’s praise,
But walled about as with a mighty wall,
Far from men’s reach and sight, alone, alone.
Nikias.
Behold her, how she waves about her arms
And casts her eyes to Heaven.
ÆGEUS.
Ay, ’tis strange—
Not as our women do, yet scarce unmeet.