GORA.  Nay, up!  I say, unhappy one,
             Nor kill me with thy cries of woe! 
             Hadst thou but heeded when I warned,
             Still should we be at home
             In Colchis, safe; thy kinsmen yet
             Were living; all were well with us. 
             Rise up!  What use are tears?  Come, rise!

[MEDEA drags herself half up and kneels on the steps.]

MEDEA.  ’Twas so I knelt, ’twas so I lay
             And stretched my hands for pity out
             To mine own children; begged and wept
             And prayed for one, for only one
             Of my dear children!  Death itself
             Were not so bitter, as to leave
             One of them here!—­But to have none—! 
             And neither came!  They turned away
             With terror on their baby lips,
             And fled for comfort to the breast
             Of her—­my bitterest enemy!

[She springs up suddenly.]

But he,—­he laughed to see, and she
Did laugh as well!

GORA.  O, woe is me! 
             O, woe and heavy sorrow!

MEDEA.  O gods, is this your vengeance, then,
             Your retribution?  All for love
             I followed him, as wife should e’er
             Follow her lord.  My father died,
             But was it I that slew him?  No! 
             My brother fell.  Was’t, then, my hand
             That dealt the stroke?  I’ve wept for them
             With heavy mourning, poured hot tears
             To serve as sad libation for
             Their resting-place so far away! 
             Ye gods!  These woes so measureless
             That I have suffered at your hands—­
             Call ye these justice,—­retribution?

GORA.  Thou didst leave thine own—­
             Thine own desert thee now!

MEDEA.  Then will I visit punishment
             On them, as Heaven on me! 
             There shall no deed of wickedness
             In all the wide world scathless go! 
             Leave vengeance to my hand, O gods above!

GORA.  Nay, think how thou mayst save thyself;
             All else forget!

MEDEA.  What fear is this
             That makes thy heart so craven-soft? 
             First thou wert grim and savage, spak’st
             Fierce threats of vengeance, now art full
             Of fears and trembling!

GORA.  Let me be! 
             That moment when I saw thy babes
             Flee their own mother’s yearning arms,
             Flee from the arms of her that bare
             And reared them, then I knew at last
             ‘Twas the gods’ hand had struck thee down! 
             Then brake my heart, my courage sank! 
             These