GORA. Even these.
MEDEA. And I would not believe?
GORA. Thou wouldst not; but into the deadly net
Didst haste, that now closes over thine head.
MEDEA. "A smooth-tongued traitor!" Yea, that is the word!
Hadst thou said but that, I had known in time;
But thou namedst him foe to us, hateful, and dread,
While friendly he seemed and fair, and I hated him not.
GORA. Thou lovest him, then?
MEDEA. I? Love?
I hate and shudder at him
As at falsehood, treachery,
Black horrors—as at myself!
GORA. Then punish him, strike him low!
Avenge thy brother, thy sire,
Our fatherland and our gods,
Our shame-yea, mine, and thine!
MEDEA. First I will have my babes;
All else is hidden in night.
What think'st thou of this?—When he comes
Treading proud to his bridal with her,
That maid whom I hate,
If, from the roof of the palace above him,
Medea crash down at his feet and lie there,
A ghastly corpse?
GORA. 'Twere a sweet revenge!
MEDEA. Or if, at the bridal-chamber's door,
I lay her dead in her blood,
Beside her the children—Jason's children—dead?