He’s with an ointment smear’d, that is
My masterpiece. But what is this?
Why, why should poisons brew’d by me
Less potent than Medea’s be,
By which, for love betray’d, beguiled,
On mighty Creon’s haughty child
She wreaked her vengeance sure and swift,
And vanish’d, when the robe, her gift,
In deadliest venom steep’d and dyed,
Swept off in flames the new-made bride?