[She veils herself.]
How warm, how soft thou art,
How dost thou pour new life through all my frame!
Now come, come all my foes in close-set ranks,
Banded against me, banded for your doom!
GORA. Look! Yonder flares a light!
MEDEA. Nay, let it flare!
'Twill soon be quenched in blood!—
Here are the presents I would send to her;
And thou shalt be the bearer of my gifts!
GORA. I?
MEDEA. Thou! Go quickly to the chamber where
Creusa sits, speak soft and honied words,
Bring her Medea's greetings, and her gifts!
[She takes the gifts out of the chest one by one.]
This golden box, first, that doth treasure up
Most precious ointments. Ah, the bride will shine
Like blazing stars, if she will ope its lid!
But bear it heedfully, and shake it not!
GORA. Woe's me!
[She has grasped the ointment-box firmly in her left hand; as she steadies it with her right hand, she slightly jars the cover open, and a blinding flame leaps forth.]