Part 8

JASON.

Wilt change that prayer, and choose a wiser part? Pray not to hold true sense for pain, nor rate Thyself unhappy, being too fortunate.

MEDEA.

Aye, mock me; thou hast where to lay thine head, But I go naked to mine exile.

JASON.

Tread Thine own path! Thou hast made it all to be.

MEDEA.

How? By seducing and forsaking thee?

JASON.

By those vile curses on the royal halls Let loose. . . .

MEDEA.

On thy house also, as chance falls, I am a living curse.

JASON.

Oh, peace! Enough Of these vain wars: I will no more thereof. If thou wilt take from all that I possess Aid for these babes and thine own helplessness Of exile, speak thy bidding. Here I stand Full-willed to succour thee with stintless hand, And send my signet to old friends that dwell On foreign shores, who will entreat thee well. Refuse, and thou shalt do a deed most vain. But cast thy rage away, and thou shalt gain Much, and lose little for thine anger's sake.

MEDEA.

I will not seek thy friends. I will not take Thy givings. Give them not. Fruits of a stem Unholy bring no blessing after them.

JASON.

Now God in heaven be witness, all my heart Is willing, in all ways, to do its part For thee and for thy babes. But nothing good Can please thee. In sheer savageness of mood Thou drivest from thee every friend. Wherefore I warrant thee, thy pains shall be the more.

MEDEA.

Go: thou art weary for the new delight Thou wooest, so long tarrying out of sight Of her sweet chamber. Go, fulfil thy pride, O bridegroom! For it may be, such a bride Shall wait thee,--yea, God heareth me in this-- As thine own heart shall sicken ere it kiss.

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CHORUS.

Alas, the Love that falleth like a flood, Strong-winged and transitory: Why praise ye him? What beareth he of good To man, or glory? Yet Love there is that moves in gentleness, Heart-filling, sweetest of all powers that bless. Loose not on me, O Holder of man's heart, Thy golden quiver, Nor steep in poison of desire the dart That heals not ever.

The pent hate of the word that cavilleth, The strife that hath no fill, Where once was fondness; and the mad heart's breath For strange love panting still: O Cyprian, cast me not on these; but sift, Keen-eyed, of love the good and evil gift. Make Innocence my friend, God's fairest star, Yea, and abate not The rare sweet beat of bosoms without war, That love, and hate not.

Others.

Home of my heart, land of my own, Cast me not, nay, for pity, Out on my ways, helpless, alone, Where the feet fail in the mire and stone, A woman without a city. Ah, not that! Better the end: The green grave cover me rather, If a break must come in the days I know, And the skies be changed and the earth below; For the weariest road that man may wend Is forth from the home of his father.

Lo, we have seen: 'tis not a song Sung, nor learned of another. For whom hast thou in thy direst wrong For comfort? Never a city strong To hide thee, never a brother. Ah, but the man--cursed be he, Cursed beyond recover, Who openeth, shattering, seal by seal, A friend's clean heart, then turns his heel, Deaf unto love: never in me Friend shall he know nor lover.

AEGEUS.