Medea.
What fraud can be devised
In one short hour?
Creon.
To those on mischief bent, be sure,
The briefest time is fraught with mischief's fatal power.
Medea.
Dost thou refuse me, then, one little space for tears?
Creon.
Though deep-ingrafted fear would fain resist thy plea,
A single day I'll give thee ere my sentence holds.
Medea.
Too gracious thou. But let my respite further shrink,
And I'll depart content.
Creon.
Thy life shall surely pay
The forfeit if to-morrow's sun beholds thee still
In Corinth.
But the voice of Hymen calls away
To solemnize the rites of this his festal day.
Creon goes out toward his palace. Medea remains gazing darkly after him for a few moments, and then takes her way in the opposite direction.
The chorus sings in reminiscent strain of the old days before the Argo's voyage, the simple innocent life of the golden age when each man was content to dwell within the horizon of his birth; the impious rash voyage of the Argonauts, their dreadful experiences in consequence, their wild adventure's prize of fatal gold and more fatal Colchian sorceress; their dark forebodings of the consequences in after years, when the sea shall be a highway, and all hidden places of the world laid bare. Medea comes rushing in bent upon using for vengeance the day which Creon has granted her. The nurse tries in vain to restrain her.
Nurse.
My foster daughter, whither speedest thou abroad?
O stay, I pray thee, and restrain thy passion's force.
But Medea hastens by without answering or noticing her. The nurse, looking after her, reflects in deep distress: