So, pluck the second string. Thou know'st it still?
MEDEA (drawing her hand across her brow as if in pain).
I have forgotten!
JASON. Ay, said I not so?
She cannot sing it.—Other songs are hers,
Like that which, with her magic arts, she sang
Unto the dragon, that he fell asleep.
That was no pure, sweet strain, like this of thine!
CREUSA (_whispering in _MEDEA's ear).
"Ye gods above, ye mighty gods—."
MEDEA (repeating it after her).
"Ye gods above—"
O gods in heaven, O righteous, mighty gods!
[She lets the lyre fall to the ground, and clasps both hands before her eyes.]
CREUSA. She weeps! Canst be so stern and hard?