GORA. Thou didst leave thine own—
Thine own desert thee now!
MEDEA. Then will I visit punishment
On them, as Heaven on me!
There shall no deed of wickedness
In all the wide world scathless go!
Leave vengeance to my hand, O gods above!
GORA. Nay, think how thou mayst save thyself;
All else forget!
MEDEA. What fear is this
That makes thy heart so craven-soft?
First thou wert grim and savage, spak'st
Fierce threats of vengeance, now art full
Of fears and trembling!
GORA. Let me be!
That moment when I saw thy babes
Flee their own mother's yearning arms,
Flee from the arms of her that bare
And reared them, then I knew at last
'Twas the gods' hand had struck thee down!
Then brake my heart, my courage sank!
These babes, whom it was all my joy
To tend and rear, had been the last
Of all the royal Colchian line,
On whom I still could lavish all
My love for my far fatherland.
Long since, my love for thee was dead;
But in these babes I seemed to see
Again my homeland, thy dear sire,
Thy murdered brother, all the line
Of princely Colchians,—ay, thyself,
As once thou wert,—and art no more!
So, all my thought was how to shield
And rear these babes; I guarded them
E'en as the apple of mine eye,
And now—
MEDEA. They have repaid thy love
As thanklessness doth e'er repay!
GORA. Chide not the babes! They're innocent!
MEDEA. How, innocent? And flee their mother
Innocent? They are Jason's babes,
Like him in form, in heart, and in
My bitter hate! If I could hold them here,
Their life or death depending on my hand,
E'en on this hand I reach out, so, and one
Swift stroke sufficed to slay them, bring to naught
All that they were, or are, or e'er can be,—
Look! they should be no more!
GORA. O, woe to thee,
Cruel mother, who canst hate those little babes
Thyself didst bear!
MEDEA. What hopes have they, what hopes?
If here they tarry with their sire,
That sire so base and infamous,
What shall their lot be then?
The children of this latest bed
Will scorn them, do despite to them
And to their mother, that wild thing
From distant Colchis' strand!
Their lot will be to serve as slaves;
Or else their anger, gnawing deep
And ever deeper at their hearts,
Will make them bitter, hard,
Until they grow to hate themselves.
For, if misfortune often is begot
By crime, more often far are wicked deeds
The offspring of misfortune!—What have they
To live for, then? I would my sire
Had slain me long, long years agone
When I was small, and had not yet
Drunk deep of woe, as now I do—
Thought heavy thoughts, as now!