Medea of Euripides. Euripides
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Bleeding in that old room, where still is laid
Lord Jason's bed? She hath for that a blade
Made keen. Or slay the bridegroom and the king,
And win herself God knows what direr thing?
'Tis a fell spirit. Few, I ween, shall stir
Her hate unscathed, or lightly humble her.
Ha! 'Tis the children from their games again,
Rested and gay; and all their mother's pain
Forgotten! Young lives ever turn from gloom!
[The Children and their Attendant come in.
Attendant.
Thou ancient treasure of my lady's room,
What mak'st thou here before the gates alone,
And alway turning on thy lips some moan
Of old mischances? Will our mistress be
Content, this long time to be left by thee?
Nurse.
Grey guard of Jason's children, a good thrall
Hath his own grief, if any hurt befall
His masters. Aye, it holds one's heart! …
Meseems
I have strayed out so deep in evil dreams,
I longed to rest me here alone, and cry
Medea's wrongs to this still Earth and Sky.
Attendant.
How? Are the tears yet running in her eyes?
Nurse.
'Twere good to be like thee! … Her sorrow lies
Scarce wakened yet, not half its perils wrought.
Attendant.
Mad spirit! … if a man may speak his thought
Of masters mad.—And nothing in her ears
Hath sounded yet of her last cause for tears!
[He moves towards the house, but the Nurse checks him.
Nurse.
What cause, old man? … Nay, grudge me not one word.
Attendant.
'Tis nothing. Best forget what thou hast heard.
Nurse.
Nay, housemate, by thy beard! Hold it not hid
From me. … I will keep silence if thou bid.
Attendant.
I heard an old man talking, where he sate
At draughts in the sun, beside the fountain gate,
And never thought of me, there standing still
Beside him. And he said, 'Twas Creon's will,
Being lord of all this land, that she be sent,
And with her her two sons, to banishment.
Maybe 'tis all false. For myself, I know
No further, and I would it were not so.
Nurse.
Jason will never bear it--his own sons
Banished—however hot his anger runs
Against their mother!
Attendant.
Old love burneth low
When new love wakes, men say. He is not now
Husband nor father here, nor any kin.
Nurse.
But this is ruin! New waves breaking in
To wreck us, ere we are righted from the old!
Attendant.
Well, hold thy peace. Our mistress will be told
All in good time. Speak thou no word hereof.
Nurse.
My babes! What think ye of your father's love?
God curse him not, he is my master still:
But, oh, to them that loved him, 'tis an ill
Friend. …
Attendant.
And what man on earth is different? How?
Hast thou lived all these years, and learned but now
That every man more loveth his own head
Than other men's? He dreameth of the bed
Of this new bride, and thinks not of his sons.
Nurse.
Go: run into the house, my little ones:
All will end happily! … Keep them apart:
Let not their mother meet them while her heart
Is darkened. Yester night I saw a flame
Stand in her eye, as though she hated them,
And would I know not what. For sure her wrath
Will never turn nor slumber, till she hath …
Go: and if some must suffer, may it be
Not we who love her, but some enemy!
Voice (within).
Oh shame and pain: O woe is me!
Would I could die in my misery!
[The Children and the Attendant go in.
Nurse.
Ah, children, hark! She moves again
Her frozen heart, her sleeping wrath.
In, quick! And never cross her path,
Nor rouse that dark eye in its pain;
That fell sea-spirit, and the dire
Spring of a will untaught, unbowed.
Quick, now!—Methinks this weeping cloud
Hath in its heart some thunder-fire,
Slow gathering, that must flash ere long.
I know not how, for ill or well,
It turns, this uncontrollable
Tempestuous spirit, blind with wrong.
Voice (within).
Have I not suffered? Doth it call
No tears? … Ha, ye beside the wall
Unfathered children, God hate you
As I am hated, and him, too,
That gat you, and this house and all!
Nurse.
For pity! What have they to do,
Babes, with their father's sin? Why call
Thy curse on these? … Ah, children, all
These days my bosom bleeds for you.
Rude are the wills of princes: yea,
Prevailing alway, seldom crossed,
On fitful winds their moods are tossed:
'Tis best men tread the equal way.
Aye, not with glory but with peace
May the long summers find me crowned:
For gentleness—her very sound
Is magic, and her usages.
All wholesome: but the fiercely great
Hath little music on his road,
And falleth, when the hand