_Medea._ Thou bidst me speed my flight? Nay, rather, had I fled, I should return for this. Strange bridal rites I see! But now, forgetful of all around her, she becomes absorbed in her own meditations. And here follows a masterful description of the struggle of conflicting passions in a human soul. The contending forces are mother-love and the passionate hate of an outraged wife. And when the mother-love is at last vanquished, we may be sure that all the woman is dead in her, and she becomes what the closing scene of the play portrays--an incarnate fury. _Medea._ Why dost thou falter, O my soul? 'Tis well begun; But still how small a portion of thy just revenge Is that which gives thee present joy? Not yet has love Been banished from thy maddened heart if 'tis enough That Jason widowed be. Pursue thy vengeful quest To acts as yet unknown, and steel thyself for these. Away with every thought and fear of God and man; Too lightly falls the rod that pious hands upbear. Give passion fullest sway; exhaust thy ancient powers; And let the worst thou yet hast done be innocent Beside thy present deeds. Come, let them know how slight Were those thy crimes already done; mere training they For greater deeds. For what could hands untrained in crime Accomplish? Or what mattered maiden rage? But now, I am Medea; in the bitter school of woe My powers have ripened. This mood culminates in an ecstasy of madness as she dwells upon her former successful deeds of blood.