In speech at least, meseemeth, I must be Not evil; but, as some old pilot goes Furled to his sail's last edge, when danger blows Too fiery, run before the wind and swell, Woman, of thy loud storms.--And thus I tell My tale. Since thou wilt build so wondrous high Thy deeds of service in my jeopardy, To all my crew and quest I know but one Saviour, of Gods or mortals one alone, The Cyprian. Oh, thou hast both brain and wit, Yet underneath . . . nay, all the tale of it Were graceless telling; how sheer love, a fire Of poison-shafts, compelled thee with desire To save me. But enough. I will not score That count too close. 'Twas good help: and therefor I give thee thanks, howe'er the help was wrought. Howbeit, in my deliverance, thou hast got Far more than given. A good Greek land hath been Thy lasting home, not barbary. Thou hast seen Our ordered life, and justice, and the long Still grasp of law not changing with the strong Man's pleasure. Then, all Hellas far and near Hath learned thy wisdom, and in every ear Thy fame is. Had thy days run by unseen On that last edge of the world, where then had been The story of great Medea? Thou and I . . . What worth to us were treasures heapèd high In rich kings' rooms; what worth a voice of gold More sweet than ever rang from Orpheus old, Unless our deeds have glory? Speak I so, Touching the Quest I wrought, thyself did throw The challenge down. Next for thy cavilling Of wrath at mine alliance with a king, Here thou shalt see I both was wise, and free From touch of passion, and a friend to thee Most potent, and my children . . . Nay, be still! When first I stood in Corinth, clogged with ill From many a desperate mischance, what bliss Could I that day have dreamed of, like to this, To wed with a king's daughter, I exiled And beggared? Not--what makes thy passion wild-- From loathing of thy bed; not over-fraught With love for this new bride; not that I sought To upbuild mine house with offspring: 'tis enough, What thou hast borne: I make no word thereof: But, first and greatest, that we all might dwell In a fair house and want not, knowing well That poor men have no friends, but far and near Shunning and silence. Next, I sought to rear Our sons in nurture worthy of my race, And, raising brethren to them, in one place Join both my houses, and be all from now Prince-like and happy. What more need hast thou Of children? And for me, it serves my star To link in strength the children that now are With those that shall be. Have I counselled ill? Not thine own self would say it, couldst thou still One hour thy jealous flesh.--'Tis ever so! Who looks for more in women? When the flow Of love runs plain, why, all the world is fair: But, once there fall some ill chance anywhere To baulk that thirst, down in swift hate are trod Men's dearest aims and noblest. Would to God We mortals by some other seed could raise Our fruits, and no blind women block our ways!