O gods, gods; ye have cursed me in this gift! Is it for this, for this that I have striven? Have wrestled in the darkness? wept my tears? Have fought with sweet desires and hopes and thoughts? Have watched when men were sleeping? for long days Have shunned the sunlight and the breaths of Heaven? Is it for this, for this that I have prayed Long prayers, poured out with blood and cries and tears? Lo, I who strove for strength have grown more weak Than is the weakest. I have poured the sap Of all my being, my life’s very life, Before a thankless godhead; and am grown No woman, but a monster. What avail Charms, spells and potions, all my hard-won arts, My mystic workings, seeing they cannot win One little common spark of human love? O gods, gods, ye have cursed me in this gift! More should ye have withheld or more have giv’n; Have fashioned me more weak or else more strong. Behold me now, your work, a thing of fear-- From natural human fellowship cut off, And yet a woman--sick and sore with pain; Hungry for love and music of men’s praise, But walled about as with a mighty wall, Far from men’s reach and sight, alone, alone. NIKIAS. Behold her, how she waves about her arms And casts her eyes to Heaven. ÆGEUS. Ay, ’tis strange-- Not as our women do, yet scarce unmeet. NIKIAS. Unmeet, unmeet? But Jason holds it so! Mark you his white cheeks and his knitted brows, What wrath and hate and scorn upon his face! JASON.