Howbeit, in my deliverance, thou hast got Far more than given. A good Greek land hath been Thy lasting home, not barbary. Thou hast seen Our ordered life, and justice, and the long Still grasp of law not changing with the strong Man's pleasure. Then, all h.e.l.las far and near Hath learned thy wisdom, and in every ear Thy fame is. Had thy days run by unseen On that last edge of the world, where then had been The story of great Medea? Thou and I ...

What worth to us were treasures heaped high In rich kings' rooms; what worth a voice of gold More sweet than ever rang from Orpheus old, Unless our deeds have glory?

Speak I so, Touching the Quest I wrought, thyself did throw The challenge down. Next for thy cavilling Of wrath at mine alliance with a king, Here thou shalt see I both was wise, and free From touch of pa.s.sion, and a friend to thee Most potent, and my children ... Nay, be still!

When first I stood in Corinth, clogged with ill From many a desperate mischance, what bliss Could I that day have dreamed of, like to this, To wed with a king's daughter, I exiled And beggared? Not--what makes thy pa.s.sion wild-- From loathing of thy bed; not over-fraught With love for this new bride; not that I sought To upbuild mine house with offspring: 'tis enough, What thou hast borne: I make no word thereof: But, first and greatest, that we all might dwell In a fair house and want not, knowing well That poor men have no friends, but far and near Shunning and silence. Next, I sought to rear Our sons in nurture worthy of my race, And, raising brethren to them, in one place Join both my houses, and be all from now Prince-like and happy. What more need hast thou Of children? And for me, it serves my star To link in strength the children that now are With those that shall be.

Have I counselled ill?

Not thine own self would say it, couldst thou still One hour thy jealous flesh.--'Tis ever so!

Who looks for more in women? When the flow Of love runs plain, why, all the world is fair: But, once there fall some ill chance anywhere To baulk that thirst, down in swift hate are trod Men's dearest aims and n.o.blest. Would to G.o.d We mortals by some other seed could raise Our fruits, and no blind women block our ways!

Then had there been no curse to wreck mankind.

LEADER.

Lord Jason, very subtly hast thou twined Thy speech: but yet, though all athwart thy will I speak, this is not well thou dost, but ill, Betraying her who loved thee and was true.

MEDEA.

Surely I have my thoughts, and not a few Have held me strange. To me it seemeth, when A crafty tongue is given to evil men 'Tis like to wreck, not help them. Their own brain Tempts them with lies to dare and dare again, Till ... no man hath enough of subtlety.

As thou--be not so seeming-fair to me Nor deft of speech. One word will make thee fall.

Wert thou not false, 'twas thine to tell me all, And charge me help thy marriage path, as I Did love thee; not befool me with a lie.

JASON.

An easy task had that been! Aye, and thou A loving aid, who canst not, even now, Still that loud heart that surges like the tide!

MEDEA.

That moved thee not. Thine old barbarian bride, The dog out of the east who loved thee sore, She grew grey-haired, she served thy pride no more.

JASON.

Now understand for once! The girl to me Is nothing, in this web of sovranty I hold. I do but seek to save, even yet, Thee: and for brethren to our sons beget Young kings, to prosper all our lives again.

MEDEA.

G.o.d shelter me from prosperous days of pain, And wealth that maketh wounds about my heart.

JASON.

Wilt change that prayer, and choose a wiser part?

Pray not to hold true sense for pain, nor rate Thyself unhappy, being too fortunate.

MEDEA.

Aye, mock me; thou hast where to lay thine head, But I go naked to mine exile.

JASON.

Tread Thine own path! Thou hast made it all to be.

MEDEA.

How? By seducing and forsaking thee?

JASON.

By those vile curses on the royal halls Let loose... .

MEDEA.

On thy house also, as chance falls, I am a living curse.

JASON.

Oh, peace! Enough Of these vain wars: I will no more thereof.

If thou wilt take from all that I possess Aid for these babes and thine own helplessness Of exile, speak thy bidding. Here I stand Full-willed to succour thee with stintless hand, And send my signet to old friends that dwell On foreign sh.o.r.es, who will entreat thee well.

Refuse, and thou shalt do a deed most vain.

But cast thy rage away, and thou shalt gain Much, and lose little for thine anger's sake.

MEDEA.

I will not seek thy friends. I will not take Thy givings. Give them not. Fruits of a stem Unholy bring no blessing after them.

JASON.

Now G.o.d in heaven be witness, all my heart Is willing, in all ways, to do its part For thee and for thy babes. But nothing good Can please thee. In sheer savageness of mood Thou drivest from thee every friend. Wherefore I warrant thee, thy pains shall be the more.

[_He goes slowly away._

MEDEA.

Go: thou art weary for the new delight Thou wooest, so long tarrying out of sight Of her sweet chamber. Go, fulfil thy pride, O bridegroom! For it may be, such a bride Shall wait thee,--yea, G.o.d heareth me in this-- As thine own heart shall sicken ere it kiss.

CHORUS.

Alas, the Love that falleth like a flood, Strong-winged and transitory: Why praise ye him? What beareth he of good To man, or glory?

Yet Love there is that moves in gentleness, Heart-filling, sweetest of all powers that bless.

Loose not on me, O Holder of man's heart, Thy golden quiver, Nor steep in poison of desire the dart That heals not ever.

The pent hate of the word that cavilleth, The strife that hath no fill, Where once was fondness; and the mad heart's breath For strange love panting still: O Cyprian, cast me not on these; but sift, Keen-eyed, of love the good and evil gift.

Make Innocence my friend, G.o.d's fairest star, Yea, and abate not The rare sweet beat of bosoms without war, That love, and hate not.

_Others._

Home of my heart, land of my own, Cast me not, nay, for pity, Out on my ways, helpless, alone, Where the feet fail in the mire and stone, A woman without a city.

Ah, not that! Better the end: The green grave cover me rather, If a break must come in the days I know, And the skies be changed and the earth below; For the weariest road that man may wend Is forth from the home of his father.

Lo, we have seen: 'tis not a song Sung, nor learned of another.

For whom hast thou in thy direst wrong For comfort? Never a city strong To hide thee, never a brother.

Ah, but the man--cursed be he, Cursed beyond recover, Who openeth, shattering, seal by seal, A friend's clean heart, then turns his heel, Deaf unto love: never in me Friend shall he know nor lover.