Thy brows are all o'ercast: thine eyes are filled. . . .
Medea.
For bitter need, Old Man! The gods have willed,
And my own evil mind, that this should come.
Attendant.
Take heart! Thy sons one day will bring thee home.
Medea.
Home? . . . I have others to send home. Woe's me!
Attendant.
Be patient. Many a mother before thee
Hath parted from her children. We poor things
Of men must needs endure what fortune brings.