Medea [not noticing the Nurse's presence]: For thy hate, poor soul,
Dost thou a measure seek? Let it be deep as love.
And shall I tamely view the wedding torches's glare?
And shall this day go uneventful by, this day,
So hardly won, so grudgingly bestowed? Nay, nay,400
While, poised upon her heights, the central earth shall bear
The heavens up; while seasons run their endless round,
And sands unnumbered lie; while days, and nights, and sun,
And stars in due procession pass; while round the pole
The ocean-fearing bears revolve, and tumbling streams