MEDEA.  Thou’rt right, O king,
             Most just of kings!  Not so much kind of heart
             As just!  How do thy bidding?  Yet will I
             Strive to do both.  Hark, children!  List to me! 
             They send your mother forth, to wander wide
             O’er sea and land.  Who knows where she shall come? 
             These kindly folk, thy father, and that just
             And gentle king that standeth there, have said
             That I may take, to share my lonely fate,
             One of my babes, but only one.  Ye gods,
             Hear ye this sentence?  One, and one alone! 
             Now, whichsoever of you loves me more,
             Let that one come to join me, for I may
             Not have you both; the other here must stay
             Beside his father, and with that false king’s
             Still falser daughter!—­Hear ye what I say? 
             Why linger there?

KING.  Thou seest they will not come!

MEDEA.  Thou liest, false and wicked king!  They would,
             Save that thy daughter hath enchanted them
             And keeps them from me!—­Heard ye not, my babes?—­
             Accurst and monstrous children, bane and curse
             Of your poor mother, image of your sire!

JASON.  They will not come!

MEDEA (pointing to CREUSA).

Let her but go away! 
They love me!  Am I not their mother?  Look
How she doth beckon, nod to them, and draw
Them further from me!

CREUSA.  I will go away,
             Though I deserve not thy suspicious hate.

MEDEA.  Come to me, children!—­Come!—­O viper brood!

[She advances toward them threateningly; the children fly to CREUSA for protection.]

MEDEA.  They fly from me!  They fly!

KING.  Thou seest, Medea,
             The children will not come—­so, get thee gone!

MEDEA.  They will not?  These my babes do fear to come
             Unto their mother?—­No, it is not true,
             It cannot be!—­Aeson, my elder son,
             My best beloved!  See, thy mother calls! 
             Come to her!  Nay, no more will I be harsh,
             No more enangered with thee!  Thou shalt be
             Most precious in mine eyes, the one thing left
             I call mine own!  Hark to thy mother!  Come!—­
             He turns his face away, and will not!  O
             Thou thankless child, thou image of thy sire,
             Like him in each false feature, in mine eyes
             Hateful, as he is!  Stay, then, where thou art! 
             I know thee not!—­But thou, Absyrtus, child
             Of my sore travail, with the merry face
             Of my lost brother whom with bitter tears