Thou hast this city, and thy father's home, And joy of friends, and hope in days to come: But I, being citiless, am cast aside By him that wedded me, a savage bride Won in far seas and left--no mother near, No brother, not one kinsman anywhere For harbour in this storm. Therefore of thee I ask one thing. If chance yet ope to me Some path, if even now my hand can win Strength to requite this Jason for his sin, Betray me not! Oh, in all things but this, I know how full of fears a woman is, And faint at need, and shrinking from the light Of battle: but once spoil her of her right In man's love, and there moves, I warn thee well, No bloodier spirit between heaven and h.e.l.l.

LEADER.

I will betray thee not. It is but just, Thou smite him.--And that weeping in the dust And stormy tears, how should I blame them? ...

Stay: 'Tis Creon, lord of Corinth, makes his way Hither, and bears, methinks, some word of weight.

_Enter from the right_ CREON, _the King, with armed Attendants_.

CREON.

Thou woman sullen-eyed and hot with hate Against thy lord, Medea, I here command That thou and thy two children from this land Go forth to banishment. Make no delay: Seeing ourselves, the King, are come this day To see our charge fulfilled; nor shall again Look homeward ere we have led thy children twain And thee beyond our realm's last boundary.

MEDEA.

Lost! Lost!

Mine haters at the helm with sail flung free Pursuing; and for us no beach nor sh.o.r.e In the endless waters! ... Yet, though stricken sore, I still will ask thee, for what crime, what thing Unlawful, wilt thou cast me out, O King?

CREON.

What crime? I fear thee, woman--little need To cloak my reasons--lest thou work some deed Of darkness on my child. And in that fear Reasons enough have part. Thou comest here A wise-woman confessed, and full of lore In unknown ways of evil. Thou art sore In heart, being parted from thy lover's arms.

And more, thou hast made menace ... so the alarms But now have reached mine ear ... on bride and groom, And him who gave the bride, to work thy doom Of vengeance. Which, ere yet it be too late, I sweep aside. I choose to earn thine hate Of set will now, not palter with the mood Of mercy, and hereafter weep in blood.

MEDEA.

'Tis not the first nor second time, O King, That fame hath hurt me, and come nigh to bring My ruin... . How can any man, whose eyes Are wholesome, seek to rear his children wise Beyond men's wont? Much helplessness in arts Of common life, and in their townsmen's hearts Envy deep-set ... so much their learning brings!

Come unto fools with knowledge of new things, They deem it vanity, not knowledge. Aye, And men that erst for wisdom were held high, Feel thee a thorn to fret them, privily Held higher than they. So hath it been with me.

A wise-woman I am; and for that sin To divers ill names men would pen me in; A seed of strife; an eastern dreamer; one Of brand not theirs; one hard to play upon ...

Ah, I am not so wondrous wise!--And now, To thee, I am terrible! What fearest thou?

What dire deed? Do I tread so proud a path-- Fear me not thou!--that I should brave the wrath Of princes? Thou: what has thou ever done To wrong me? Granted thine own child to one Whom thy soul chose.--Ah, _him_ out of my heart I hate; but thou, meseems, hast done thy part Not ill. And for thine houses' happiness I hold no grudge. Go: marry, and G.o.d bless Your issues. Only suffer me to rest Somewhere within this land. Though sore oppressed, I will be still, knowing mine own defeat.

CREON.

Thy words be gentle: but I fear me yet Lest even now there creep some wickedness Deep hid within thee. And for that the less I trust thee now than ere these words began.

A woman quick of wrath, aye, or a man, Is easier watching than the cold and still.

Up, straight, and find thy road! Mock not my will With words. This doom is pa.s.sed beyond recall; Nor all thy crafts shall help thee, being withal My manifest foe, to linger at my side.

MEDEA (_suddenly throwing herself down and clinging to_ CREON).

Oh, by thy knees! By that new-wedded bride ...

CREON.

'Tis waste of words. Thou shalt not weaken me.

MEDEA.

Wilt hunt me? Spurn me when I kneel to thee?

CREON.

'Tis mine own house that kneels to me, not thou.

MEDEA.

Home, my lost home, how I desire thee now!

CREON.

And I mine, and my child, beyond all things.

MEDEA.

O Loves of man, what curse is on your wings!

CREON.

Blessing or curse, 'tis as their chances flow.

MEDEA.

Remember, Zeus, the cause of all this woe!

CREON.

Oh, rid me of my pains! Up, get thee gone!

MEDEA.

What would I with thy pains? I have mine own.

CREON.

Up: or, 'fore G.o.d, my soldiers here shall fling ...

MEDEA.

Not that! Not that! ... I do but pray, O King ...

CREON.

Thou wilt not? I must face the harsher task?

MEDEA.

I accept mine exile. 'Tis not that I ask.

CREON.

Why then so wild? Why clinging to mine hand?