Dost thou remember—­Nay, look not on me
So haughtily!—­how, on that very day
Before thine uncle died, his daughters went
So sorrowful and hopeless forth from me,
Because I sent them back at thy behest,
And would not aid them?  Then thou cam’st, alone,
Unto my chamber, looking in mine eyes
So earnestly, as though some purpose grim,
Deep hidden in thy heart, would search my soul
To find its like therein?  And how thou saidst
That they were come to me for healing balms
To cure their old, sick father?  ’Twas thy wish
That I should brew a cool, refreshing draught
To cure him of his ills forevermore—­
And thee as well!  Hast thou forgotten that? 
Nay, look at me, eye straight to eye, if thou
Dost dare!

JASON.  Thou demon!  Why these frantic words,
             This rage against me?  Why recall to life
             These shadows of my dreams and make them real,
             Why hold a mirror up to me wherein
             Naught but thine own vile thoughts do show, and say
             ’Tis I that look therefrom?  Why call my thoughts
             From out the past to charge me with thy crimes? 
             Naught know I of thy plans and plottings, naught! 
             From the beginning I have hated thee,
             I’ve cursed the day when first I saw thy face;
             ’Tis pity only held me at thy side! 
             But now I cast thee off forevermore
             With bitter curses, e’en as all the world
             Doth curse thee!

MEDEA (throwing herself at his feet with a cry of agony).

No!  My love, my husband!  No!

JASON (roughly).

Begone!

MEDEA.  That day my old, gray father cursed
             My name, thou gay’st thy promise, nevermore
             To leave me, nevermore!  Now keep thy word!

JASON.  Thine own rash deeds have made that promise naught,
             And here I give thee to thy father’s curse.

MEDEA.  I hate thee!—­Come!  Come, O my husband!

JASON.  Back!

MEDEA.  Come to my loving arms!  ’Twas once thy wish!

JASON.  Back!  See, I draw my sword.  I’ll strike thee dead,
             Unless thou yield, and go!

MEDEA (approaching him fearlessly).

Then strike me, strike!

CREUSA (to JASON).

Hold!  Let her go in peace, and harm her not!

MEDEA.  Ha!  Thou here, too, thou snow-white, silvery snake? 
             Oh, hiss no more, nor shoot thy forked tongue
             With honied words upon it!  Thou hast got
             What thou didst wish—­a husband at the last! 
             For this, then, didst thou show thyself so soft
             And smooth-caressing, for this only wind
             Thy