Go to now, a word will I tell thee, a prophecy faithful and fast: {810}
What time thy son to the plain Elysian shall come at the last—
Thy son, who now in the dwellings of Cheiron the Centaur-king,
Forlorn of the mother’s breast, is nursed by the Maids of the Spring—
There is it his weird to wed Aiêtes’ daughter; but thou,
Medea’s mother that shalt be, help thy daughter now,
Yea, Peleus withal—ha! why is thine anger quenchless-hot?
Folly was his; yet even the Gods may be folly-distraught.
Of a surety, I ween, by my behests shall Hephaistus cease
To cause the might of his fire to burn; and Hippotades,