Surely. She is a woman like her kind. . . . Yet I will aid thee in thy labour; I Will send her gifts, the fairest gifts that lie In the hands of men, things of the days of old, Fine robings and a carcanet of gold, By the boys' hands.--Go, quick, some handmaiden, And fetch the raiment. [_A handmaid goes into the house._ Ah, her cup shall then Be filled indeed! What more should woman crave, Being wed with thee, the bravest of the brave, And girt with raiment which of old the sire Of all my house, the Sun, gave, steeped in fire, To his own fiery race? [_The handmaid has returned bearing the Gifts._ Come, children, lift With heed these caskets. Bear them as your gift To her, being bride and princess and of right Blessed!--I think she will not hold them light. JASON. Fond woman, why wilt empty thus thine hand Of treasure? Doth King Creon's castle stand In stint of raiment, or in stint of gold? Keep these, and make no gift. For if she hold Jason of any worth at all, I swear Chattels like these will not weigh more with her. MEDEA. Ah, chide me not! 'Tis written, gifts persuade The gods in heaven; and gold is stronger made Than words innumerable to bend men's ways. Fortune is hers. God maketh great her days: Young and a crownèd queen! And banishment For those two babes. . . . I would not gold were spent, But life's blood, ere that come. My children, go Forth into those rich halls, and, bowing low, Beseech your father's bride, whom I obey, Ye be not, of her mercy, cast away Exiled: and give the caskets--above all Mark this!--to none but her, to hold withal And keep. . . . Go quick! And let your mother know Soon the good tiding that she longs for. . . . Go! [_She goes quickly into the house._ JASON _and the_ CHILDREN _with their_ ATTENDANT _depart_. * * * * * CHORUS. Now I have no hope more of the children's living; No hope more. They are gone forth unto death. The bride, she taketh the poison of their giving: She taketh the bounden gold and openeth; And the crown, the crown, she lifteth about her brow, Where the light brown curls are clustering. No hope now! O sweet and cloudy gleam of the garments golden! The robe, it hath clasped her breast and the crown her head. Then, then, she decketh the bride, as a bride of olden Story, that goeth pale to the kiss of the dead. For the ring hath closed, and the portion of death is there; And she flieth not, but perisheth unaware. _Some Women._ O bridegroom, bridegroom of the kiss so cold, Art thou wed with princes, art thou girt with gold, Who know'st not, suing For thy child's undoing, And, on her thou lovest, for a doom untold? How art thou fallen from thy place of old! _Others._