Medea.
That moved thee not. Thine old barbarian bride,
The dog out of the east who loved thee sore,
She grew grey-haired, she served thy pride no more.
Now understand for once! The girl to me
Is nothing, in this web of sovranty
I hold. I do but seek to save, even yet,
Thee: and for brethren to our sons beget
Young kings, to prosper all our lives again.
Medea.
God shelter me from prosperous days of pain,
And wealth that maketh wounds about my heart.
Jason.
Wilt change that prayer, and choose a wiser part?
Pray not to hold true sense for pain, nor rate
Thyself unhappy, being too fortunate.
Medea.
Aye, mock me; thou hast where to lay thine head,
But I go naked to mine exile.