Woe's me!
My limbs refuse their service! Here I lie,
A broken wreck!
MEDEA. Nay, cease thy mad attempts
Thou canst not harm me, for I am reserved
To be the victim of another's hand,
And not of thine!
JASON. My babes!—Where has thou them?
MEDEA. Nay, they are mine!
JASON. Where hast thou them, I say?
MEDEA. They're gone where they are happier far than thou
Or I shall ever be!
JASON. Dead! Dead! My babes!
MEDEA. Thou deemest death the worst of mortal woes?
I know a far more wretched one—to be
Alone, unloved! Hadst thou not prized mere life
Far, far above its worth, we were not now
In such a pass. But we must bear our weight
Of sorrow, for thy deeds! Yet these our babes
Are spared that grief, at least!
JASON. And thou canst stand
So patient, quiet, there, and speak such words?
MEDEA. Quiet, thou sayst, and patient? Were my heart
Not closed to thee e'en now, as e'er it was,
Then couldst thou see the bitter, smarting pain
Which, ever swelling like an angry sea,
Tosses, now here, now there, the laboring wreck
That is my grief, and, veiling it from sight
In awful desolation, sweeps it forth
O'er boundless ocean-wastes! I sorrow not
Because the babes are dead; my only grief
Is that they ever lived, that thou and I
Must still live on!