Up: or, 'fore God, my soldiers here shall fling . . .
Medea.
Not that! Not that! . . . I do but pray, O King . . .
Thou wilt not? I must face the harsher task?
Medea.
I accept mine exile. 'Tis not that I ask.
Creon.
Why then so wild? Why clinging to mine hand?
Medea (rising).