GORA enters quickly.
GORA. Come, calm thyself, nor grant to these thy foes
The joy of seeing how they've conquered thee!
MEDEA (flinging herself upon the ground).
Conquered I am, at last, made nothing worth,
Trampled beneath my foes' triumphant feet!
They flee me, flee me! Mine own children flee me!
GORA (bending over her).
Thou must not die!
MEDEA. Nay, let me die! My babes,
My little babes!
ACT IV
_The outer court of _CREON'S palace, as in the preceding act. It is twilight. MEDEA lies prone upon the steps that lead to her apartments; GORA is standing before her._
GORA. Up, Medea, speak!
Why liest thou there so silent, staring
Blindly before thee? Rise, and speak!
O, help our sore distress!