Shall I let them go? KING. She is their mother. CREUSA. Run To mother, children. MEDEA (to children). Come! Why stand ye there And wait? CREUSA (_to the children, who are clasping her about the neck_). Your mother calls, my little ones. Run to her quick! [_The children go to_ MEDEA.] JASON (_to the_ KING). My lord, what is thy will? KING. Thou hast my promise. JASON. Thou wilt keep me safe? KING. I have said it. JASON. Me and mine thou wilt receive? KING. Nay, _thee_ I said, not _thine_.--Now follow on, First to the altar, to our palace then. JASON (_as he follows the king, to _CREUSA). Give me thy hand, Creusa, as of yore! CREUSA. Thou canst not take it as of old thou didst. MEDEA. They go,--and I am left, forgot! Oh, children, Run here and clasp me close. Nay, closer, tighter! CREUSA (_to herself, turning as they go_). Where is Medea? Why does she not follow? [_She comes back, but stands at a distance from_ MEDEA.] Com'st thou not to the sacrifice, then home With us? MEDEA. Unbidden guests must wait without. CREUSA. Nay, but my father promised shelter, help. MEDEA. Thy words and his betokened no such aid! CREUSA (_approaching nearer_). I've grieved thee, wounded thee! Forgive, I pray. MEDEA. Ah, gracious sound! Who spake that gentle word? Ay, many a time they've stabbed me to the quick, But none e'er paused, and, pitying, asked himself If the wound smarted! Thanks to thee, sweet maid! Oh, when thou art thyself in sore distress, Then may'st thou find some tender, pitying soul To whisper soft and gracious words to thee, To give one gentle glance--as thou to me! [MEDEA _tries to grasp _CREUSA's _hand, but the princess draws back timidly._] Nay, shudder not! 'Tis no plague-spotted hand.-- Oh, I was born a princess, even as thou. For me the path of life stretched smooth and straight As now for thee; blindly thereon I fared, Content, where all seemed right.--Ah, happy days! For I was born a princess, even as thou. And as thou stand'st before me, fair and bright And happy, so I stood beside my father, The idol of his heart, and of his folk. O Colchis! O my homeland! Dark and dread They name thee here, but to my loving eyes Thine is a shining shore! CREUSA _(taking her hand)_. Poor, lonely soul!