JASON. He was.
MEDEA. Then sure
His heart will soften.
JASON. Even the kindest men
Shun friendship with the accurst. And thou dost know
How all the world doth flee us, since the death
Of my false uncle, Pelias, whom some god
In devilish sport caused to be strangled. Thus
The people whisper that I slew him, I,
Thy husband, from that land of magic come.
Dost thou not know this?
MEDEA. Yea.
JASON. Here's cause enough
To wake and wander all the dark night through.—
But what hath brought thee forth, before the sun
Is up? What seek'st thou in this darkling hour?
Calling old friends from Colchis?
MEDEA. Nay.
JASON. Speak truth!
MEDEA. I say, I am not.
JASON. And I say to thee,
Better for thee if thou forget all such.
Pluck no more herbs, brew no more poison-drinks,
Nor commune with the moon, let dead men's bones
Rot in their graves at peace! Such magic arts
This folk here love not,—and I hate them, too!
This is not Colchis dark,—but sunny Greece;
Not hideous monsters, but our fellow-men
Dwell round about us. Come, henceforth, I know,
Thou wilt give o'er these rites and magic spells;
I have thy promise, and I know thee true.—
That crimson wimple bound about thy hair
Calls long-forgotten scenes to memory.
Why wilt not wear our country's wonted dress?
I was a Colchian on thy Colchian soil;
Be thou a Greek, now I have brought thee home.
The past is dead. Why call it back to life?
Alas! It haunts us yet, do what we will!
[MEDEA silently removes the veil and gives it to GORA.]