Into her frenzied and dreadful imprecations breaks the sound of sweet voices from without of a chorus of Corinthian women, chanting the epithalamium for the nuptials of Jason and Creüsa.
Hearing this cruel song in praise of her rival and of her false husband, Medea goes into a wilder passion of rage. Medea's old nurse tries to soothe her mistress and recall her to her right mind by wise saws and prudent philosophy. But the flood of passion will not be checked.
Nurse.
Be silent now, I pray thee, and thy plaints confine
To secret woe. The man who heavy blows can bear
In silence, biding still his time with patient soul,
Full oft his vengeance gains. 'Tis hidden wrath that harms;
But hate proclaimed oft loses half its power to harm.
Medea.
But small the grief is that can counsel take and hide
Its head; great ills lie not in hiding, but must rush
Abroad and work their will.
Nurse.
O cease this mad complaint,
My mistress; scarce can friendly silence help thee now.
Medea.
But Fortune fears the brave, the faint of heart o'erwhelms.
Nurse.
Then valor be approved, if for it still there's room.
Medea.
But it must always be that valor finds its place.
Nurse.
No star of hope points out the way from these our woes.
Medea.
The man who hopes for naught at least has naught to fear.