babes, whom it was all my joy
             To tend and rear, had been the last
             Of all the royal Colchian line,
             On whom I still could lavish all
             My love for my far fatherland. 
             Long since, my love for thee was dead;
             But in these babes I seemed to see
             Again my homeland, thy dear sire,
             Thy murdered brother, all the line
             Of princely Colchians,—­ay, thyself,
             As once thou wert,—­and art no more! 
             So, all my thought was how to shield
             And rear these babes; I guarded them
             E’en as the apple of mine eye,
             And now—­

MEDEA.  They have repaid thy love
             As thanklessness doth e’er repay!

GORA.  Chide not the babes!  They’re innocent!

MEDEA.  How, innocent?  And flee their mother
             Innocent?  They are Jason’s babes,
             Like him in form, in heart, and in
             My bitter hate!  If I could hold them here,
             Their life or death depending on my hand,
             E’en on this hand I reach out, so, and one
             Swift stroke sufficed to slay them, bring to naught
             All that they were, or are, or e’er can be,—­
             Look! they should be no more!

GORA.  O, woe to thee,
             Cruel mother, who canst hate those little babes
             Thyself didst bear!

MEDEA.  What hopes have they, what hopes? 
             If here they tarry with their sire,
             That sire so base and infamous,
             What shall their lot be then? 
             The children of this latest bed
             Will scorn them, do despite to them
             And to their mother, that wild thing
             From distant Colchis’ strand! 
             Their lot will be to serve as slaves;
             Or else their anger, gnawing deep
             And ever deeper at their hearts,
             Will make them bitter, hard,
             Until they grow to hate themselves. 
             For, if misfortune often is begot
             By crime, more often far are wicked deeds
             The offspring of misfortune!—­What have they
             To live for, then?  I would my sire
             Had slain me long, long years agone
             When I was small, and had not yet
             Drunk deep of woe, as now I do—­
             Thought heavy thoughts, as now!

GORA.  Thou tremblest!  What dost think to do?

MEDEA.  That I must forth, is sure; what else
             May chance ere that, I cannot see. 
             My heart leaps up, when I recall
             The foul injustice I have borne,
             And glows with fierce revenge!  No deed