Medea of Euripides. Euripides

know, must bow them and be gentle. Nay,

      A Greek himself men praise not, who alway

      Should seek his own will recking not. … But I—

      This thing undreamed of, sudden from on high,

      Hath sapped my soul: I dazzle where I stand,

      The cup of all life shattered in my hand,

      Longing to die—O friends! He, even he,

      Whom to know well was all the world to me,

      The man I loved, hath proved most evil.—Oh,

      Of all things upon earth that bleed and grow,

      A herb most bruised is woman. We must pay

      Our store of gold, hoarded for that one day,

      To buy us some man's love; and lo, they bring

      A master of our flesh! There comes the sting

      Of the whole shame. And then the jeopardy,

      For good or ill, what shall that master be;

      Reject she cannot: and if he but stays

      His suit, 'tis shame on all that woman's days.

      So thrown amid new laws, new places, why,

      'Tis magic she must have, or prophecy—

      Home never taught her that—how best to guide

      Toward peace this thing that sleepeth at her side.

      And she who, labouring long, shall find some way

      Whereby her lord may bear with her, nor fray

      His yoke too fiercely, blessed is the breath

      That woman draws! Else, let her pray for death.

      Her lord, if he be wearied of the face

      Withindoors, gets him forth; some merrier place

      Will ease his heart: but she waits on, her whole

      Vision enchainèd on a single soul.

      And then, forsooth, 'tis they that face the call

      Of war, while we sit sheltered, hid from all

      Peril!—False mocking! Sooner would I stand

      Three times to face their battles, shield in hand,

      Than bear one child.

       But peace! There cannot be

      Ever the same tale told of thee and me.

      Thou hast this city, and thy father's home,

      And joy of friends, and hope in days to come:

      But I, being citiless, am cast aside

      By him that wedded me, a savage bride

      Won in far seas and left—no mother near,

      No brother, not one kinsman anywhere

      For harbour in this storm. Therefore of thee

      I ask one thing. If chance yet ope to me

      Some path, if even now my hand can win

      Strength to requite this Jason for his sin,

      Betray me not! Oh, in all things but this,

      I know how full of fears a woman is,

      And faint at need, and shrinking from the light

      Of battle: but once spoil her of her right

      In man's love, and there moves, I warn thee well,

      No bloodier spirit between heaven and hell.

      Leader.

      I will betray thee not. It is but just,

      Thou smite him.—And that weeping in the dust

      And stormy tears, how should I blame them? …

       Stay:

      'Tis Creon, lord of Corinth, makes his way

      Hither, and bears, methinks, some word of weight.

      Enter from the right Creon, the King, with armed Attendants.

      Creon.