[Enter Medea, chanting her incantations.]
Medea: I supplicate the silent throng, and you, the gods740
Of death's sad rites, and groping chaos, and the home
Of gloomy Pluto, and the black abyss of death
Girt by the banks of Tartarus! Ye storied shades,
Your torments leave and haste to grace the festival
At Hymen's call! Let stop the whirling wheel that holds
Ixion's limbs and let him tread Corinthian ground;
Let Tantalus unfrighted drink Pirene's stream.745
On Creon's stock alone let heavier torments fall,