Thou radiant moon, Night's glorious orb, my supplications hear and come To aid; put on thy sternest guise, thou goddess dread Of triple form! Full oft have I with flowing locks, And feet unsandaled, wandered through thy darkling groves, And by thy inspiration summoned forth the rain From cloudless skies; the heaving seas have I subdued, And sent the vanquished waves to ocean's lowest depths. At my command the sun and stars together shine, The heavenly law reversed; while in the Arctic Sea The Bears have plunged. The seasons, too, obey my will: I've made the burning summer blossom as the spring, And hoary winter autumn's golden harvests bear. The Phasis sends his swirling waves to seek their source; And Ister, flowing to the sea with many mouths, His eager water checks and sluggish rolls along. The billows roar, the mad sea rages, though the winds All silent lie. At my command primeval groves Have lost their leafy shade, and Phoebus, wrapped in gloom, Has stood in middle heaven; while falling Hyades Attest my charms. Here again Seneca's love for the curious runs counter to his art; for he represents Medea as possessed of a veritable museum of curious charms which she has in some occult way gathered from various mythological and traditionary sources, and which she now takes occasion to recount. And it is to this catalogue that we are compelled to listen, though we are waiting in breathless suspense to know what is to come of all this preparation! After these and much more somewhat confused ravings, Medea at last says to her attendants: Take now Creüsa's bridal robe, and steep in these My potent drugs; and when she dons the clinging folds, Let subtle flames go stealing through her inmost heart. We are told that these magic flames are compounded of some of that fire which Prometheus stole from heaven; certain sulphurous fire which Vulcan had given her; a flame gained from the daring young Phaëthon, who had himself perished in flames because of his overweening folly; the fiery Chimera's breath, and some of "that fierce heat that parched the brazen bull of Colchis." The imagination flags before such an array of fires. The mystery of the burning robe and crown is no longer mysterious. Truly, he doth explain too much. But now, in more hurried strain, we hasten on the dénouement.