Thy words be gentle: but I fear me yet Lest even now there creep some wickedness Deep hid within thee. And for that the less I trust thee now than ere these words began. A woman quick of wrath, aye, or a man, Is easier watching than the cold and still. Up, straight, and find thy road! Mock not my will With words. This doom is passed beyond recall; Nor all thy crafts shall help thee, being withal My manifest foe, to linger at my side. MEDEA (_suddenly throwing herself down and clinging to_ CREON). Oh, by thy knees! By that new-wedded bride . . . CREON. 'Tis waste of words. Thou shalt not weaken me. MEDEA. Wilt hunt me? Spurn me when I kneel to thee? CREON. 'Tis mine own house that kneels to me, not thou. MEDEA. Home, my lost home, how I desire thee now! CREON. And I mine, and my child, beyond all things. MEDEA. O Loves of man, what curse is on your wings! CREON. Blessing or curse, 'tis as their chances flow. MEDEA. Remember, Zeus, the cause of all this woe! CREON. Oh, rid me of my pains! Up, get thee gone! MEDEA. What would I with thy pains? I have mine own. CREON. Up: or, 'fore God, my soldiers here shall fling . . . MEDEA. Not that! Not that! . . . I do but pray, O King . . . CREON. Thou wilt not? I must face the harsher task? MEDEA. I accept mine exile. 'Tis not that I ask. CREON. Why then so wild? Why clinging to mine hand? MEDEA (_rising_). For one day only leave me in thy land At peace, to find some counsel, ere the strain Of exile fall, some comfort for these twain, Mine innocents; since others take no thought, It seems, to save the babes that they begot. Ah! Thou wilt pity them! Thou also art A father: thou hast somewhere still a heart That feels. . . . I reck not of myself: 'tis they That break me, fallen upon so dire a day. CREON. Mine is no tyrant's mood. Aye, many a time Ere this my tenderness hath marred the chime Of wisest counsels. And I know that now I do mere folly. But so be it! Thou Shalt have this grace . . . But this I warn thee clear, If once the morrow's sunlight find thee here Within my borders, thee or child of thine, Thou diest! . . . Of this judgment not a line Shall waver nor abate. So linger on, If thou needs must, till the next risen sun; No further. . . . In one day there scarce can be Those perils wrought whose dread yet haunteth me. [_Exit_ CREON _with his suite_. CHORUS.