MEDEA. Ye gods! O hear her! Borne! Been patient!
So long, even until now!
GORA. I counseled thee to yield, to soften,
When thou didst seek to tarry yet awhile;
But thou wert blind, ensnared;
The heavy stroke had not yet fallen,
Which I foresaw, whereof I warned thee first.
But, now that it is fall'n, I bid thee stay!
They shall not laugh to scorn this Colchian wife,
Heap insult on the blood of our proud kings!
Let them give back thy babes,
The offshoots of that royal oak, now felled,
Or perish, fall themselves,
In darkness and in night!
Is all prepared for flight?
Or hast thou other plans?
MEDEA. First I will have my children. For the rest,
My way will be made plain.
GORA. Then thou wilt flee?
MEDEA. I know not, yet.
GORA. Then they will laugh at thee!
MEDEA. Laugh at me? No!
GORA. What is thy purpose, then?
MEDEA. I have no heart to plan or think at all.
Over the silent abyss
Let dark night brood!
GORA. If thou wouldst flee, then whither?