[Medea hastens by without answering. The Nurse soliloquizes.]
As some wild Bacchanal, whose fury's raging fire
The god inflames, now roams distraught on Pindus' snows,
And now on lofty Nysa's rugged slopes; so she,385
Now here, now there, with frenzied step is hurried on,
Her face revealing every mark of stricken woe,
With flushing cheek and sighs deep drawn, wild cries, and tears,
And laughter worse than tears. In her a medley strange
Of every passion may be seen: o'ertopping wrath,390
Bewailings, bitter groans of anguish. Whither tends