Studies in the Poetry of Italy, Part I. Roman

John Stuart Mill · en
_Medea._                         A greater than the king is here:
              Medea. Set us front to front, and let us strive;
              And of this royal strife let Jason be the prize.

  _Jason._    Outwearied by my woes I yield. But be thou ware,
              Medea, lest too often thou shouldst tempt thy fate.

  _Medea._    Yet Fortune's mistress have I ever been.

  _Jason._                                                   But see
              With hostile front Acastus comes, on vengeance bent,
              While Creon threatens instant death.

  _Medea._                                     Then flee them both.
              I ask thee not to draw thy sword against the king,
              Nor yet to stain thy pious hands with kindred blood.
              Come, flee with me.

  _Jason._                         But what resistance can we make,
              If war with double visage rear his horrid front,--
              If Creon and Acastus join in common cause?

  _Medea._    Add, too, the Colchian armies with my father's self
              To lead them; join the Scythian and Pelasgian hordes.
              In one deep grief of ruin will I whelm them all.

  _Jason._    Yet on the scepter do I look with fear.

  _Medea._                                                   Beware,
              Lest not the fear, but lust of power prevail with thee.

  _Jason._    Too long we strive: have done, lest we suspicion breed.

  _Medea._    Now Jove, throughout thy heavens let the thunders roll!
              Thy mighty arm make bare! Thy darting flames
              Of vengeance loose, and shake the lofty firmament
              With rending storms! At random hurl thy vengeful bolts,
              Selecting neither me nor Jason with thy aim,
              That thus whoever falls may perish with the brand
              Of guilt upon him. For thy hurtling darts can take
              No erring flight.

  _Jason._                       Recall thee and in calmness speak
              With words of peace and reason. Then if any gift
              From Creon's royal house can compensate thy woes,
              Take that as solace of thy flight.

  _Medea._                                        My soul doth scorn
              The wealth of kings. But let me have my little ones
              As comrades of my flight, that in their childish breasts
              Their mother's tears may flow. New sons await thy home.

  _Jason._    My heart inclines to yield to thee, but love forbids.
              For these my sons shall never from my arms be reft,
              Though Creon's self demand. My very spring of life,
              My sore heart's comfort and my joy are these my sons;
              And sooner could I part with limbs or vital breath,
              Or light of life.