CREUSA. Alas, how strange to think Of all the change a few brief years have wrought! Thou wert so soft and gentle, and art now So stern. But I am still the selfsame maid As then, have still the selfsame hopes and fears, And what I then thought right, I think right still, What then I blamed, cannot think blameless now.-- But thou art changed. JASON. Ay, thou hast hit the truth! The real misfortune in a hapless lot Is this: that man is to himself untrue. Here one must show him master, there must cringe And bow the knee; here Justice moves a hair, And there a grain; and, at his journey's end, He stands another man than he who late Set out upon that journey. And his loss Is twofold--for the world has passed him by In scorn, and his own self-respect is dead. Naught have I done that in itself was bad, Yet have had evil hopes, bad wishes, ay, Unholy aspirations; and have stood And looked in silence, while another sinned; Or here have willed no evil, yet joined hands With sin, forgetful how one wicked deed Begets another.--Now at last I stand, A sea of evils breaking all about, And cannot say, "My hand hath done no wrong!"-- O happy Youth, couldst thou forever stay! O joyous Fancy, blest Forgetfulness, Time when each moment cradles some great deed And buries it! How, in a swelling tide Of high adventure, I disported me, Cleaving the mighty waves with stalwart breast! But manhood comes, with slow and sober steps; And Fancy flees away, while naked Truth Creeps soft to fill its place and brood upon Full many a care. No more the present seems A fair tree, laden down with luscious fruits, 'Neath whose cool shadows rest and joy are found, But is become a tiny seedling which, When buried in the earth, will sprout and bud And bloom, and bear a future of its own. What shall thy task in life be? Where thy home? What of thy wife and babes? What thine own fate, And theirs?--Such constant musings tantalize the soul. [_He seats himself._] CREUSA. What should'st thou care for such? 'Tis all decreed, All ordered for thee.