CREUSA. Nay, never doubt it. 'Tis the song he sang When he dwelt here with us in boyhood days. Each time I heard it, joyfully I sprang To greet him, for it meant he was come home. MEDEA (_eagerly_). Teach me the song again! CREUSA. Come, listen, then. 'Tis but a short one, nor so passing sweet; But then--he knew to sing it with such grace, Such joy, such lordly pride--ay, almost scorn! [_She sings._] "Ye gods above, ye mighty gods, Anoint my head, I pray; Make strong my heart to bear my part Right kingly in the fray, To smite all foes, and steal the heart Of all fair maids away!" MEDEA. Yea, yea, all these the gods bestowed on him! CREUSA. All what? MEDEA. These gifts, of which the song doth tell. CREUSA. What gifts? MEDEA. "To smite all foes, and steal the heart Of all fair maids away!" CREUSA. Is't so? I never thought on that before; I did but sing the words I heard him sing. MEDEA. 'Twas so he stood on Colchis' hostile strand; Before his burning glance our warriors cringed, And that same glance kindled a fatal fire In the soft breast of one unhappy maid; She struggled, fled--until at last those flames, So long hid deep within her heart, burst forth, And rest and joy and peace to ashes burned In one fierce holocaust of smoky flame. 'Twas so he stood, all shining strength and grace, A hero, nay, a god--and drew his victim And drew and drew, until the victim came To its own doom; and then he flung it down Careless, and there was none would take it up. CREUSA. Art thou his wife, and speak'st such things of him? MEDEA. Thou know'st him not; I know his inmost soul.-- In all the wide world there is none but he, And all things else are naught to him but tools To shape his deeds. He harbors no mean thoughts Of paltry gain, not he; yet all his thoughts Are of himself alone. He plays a game with Fortune--now his own, and now another's. If bright Fame beckon, he will slay a man And do it gaily. Will he have a wife? He goes and takes one. And though hearts should break And lives be wasted--so he have his will, What matters it to him? Oh, he does naught That is not right--but right is what he wants! Thou knowest him not; I've probed his inmost soul. And when I think on all that he has wrought, Oh, I could see him die, and laugh the while! CREUSA. Farewell! MEDEA. Thou goest?