_Medea_ [_aside_]: Doth he thus love his sons? 'Tis well; Then is he bound, and in his armored strength this flaw 550 Reveals the place to strike. [_To_ Jason.] At least, ere I depart, Grant me this last request: let me once more embrace My sons. E'en that small boon will comfort my sad heart. And this my latest prayer to thee: if, in my grief, My tongue was over bold, let not my words remain 555 To rankle in thy heart. Remember happier things Of me and let my bitter words be straight forgot. _Jason:_ Not one shall linger in my soul; and curb, I pray, Thy too impetuous heart, and gently yield to fate. For resignation ever soothes the woeful soul. [_Exit_ Jason.] _Medea:_ He's gone! And can it be? And shall he thus depart, 560 Forgetting me and all my service? Must I drop, Like some discarded toy, out of his faithless heart? It shall not be. Up then, and summon all thy strength And all thy skill! And, this the fruit of former crime, Count nothing criminal that works thy will. But lo, We're hedged about; scant room is left for our designs. 565 Now must the attack be made where least suspicion wakes The least resistance. Now Medea, on! and do And dare thine utmost, yea, beyond thine utmost power! [_To the_ Nurse.] Do thou, my faithful nurse, the comrade of my grief, And all the devious wanderings of my checkered course, Assist me now in these my plans. There is a robe, The glory of our Colchian realm, the precious gift 570 Of Phoebus' self to king Aeëtes as a proof Of fatherhood; a gleaming circlet, too, all wrought With threads of gold, the yellow gold bespangled o'er With gems, a fitting crown to deck a princess' head. These treasures let Medea's children bear as gifts 575 To Jason's bride. But first infuse them with the power Of magic, and invoke the aid of Hecate; The woe-producing sacrifices then prepare, And let the sacred flames through all our courts resound. _Chorus:_ No force of flame or raging gale, Or whizzing bolt so fearful is, 580 As when a wife, by her lord betrayed, Burns hot with hate. Not such a force is Auster's blast, When he marshals forth the wintry storms; Nor Hister's headlong rushing stream, Which, wrecking bridges in its course, 585 Pours reckless on; Nor yet the Rhone, whose current strong Beats back the sea; nor when the snows, Beneath the lengthening days of spring And the sun's warm rays, melt down in streams From Haemus' top. 590