University of Virginia Library

Chorus altered by the Translatour.
Who hath not wist that windy words be vayne,
And that in talke of trust is not the grounde,
Heere in a mirrour may hee see it playne,
Medea so by proofe the same hath founde,
Who being blind by blinded Uenus Boy,
Her bleared Eyes could not beholde her blisse:
Nor spy the present poyson of her Ioy,
While in the grasse the Serpent lurked is,
The shaft that flew from Cupids golden bowe,
With feathers so hath dimd her daseld Eyes,
That cannot see to shun the way of woe:
The ranckling head in dented heart that lyes,
So dulles the same, that can not vnderstand
The cause that brought false Iason out of Greece,
To come vnto her fathers fertile Land,
Is not her loue, but loue of golden Fleece.
Yet was his speache so pleasaunt and so milde,
His tongue so filde, his promises so fayre,
Sweete was the fowlers Song that hath beguilde
The seely byrd, brought to the limed snare,
Faith, in his Face, trust shined in his Eyes,
The blushing brow playne meaning seemde to showe,
In double hearte blacke treason hydden lies,
Dissembling thoughts that weaue the webbe of woe.
The honyed Lyppes, the tongue in suger dept
Doe sweete the poyson rancke within the breast,
In subtle shew of paynted sheath is kept,
The rusty knife of treason deemed least:
Lyfe seemes the bayte to sight that lyeth brim,
Death is the hooke that vnderlies the same,
The Candell blase delights with burning trim,
The Fly, till shee bee burned in the flame.
Who in such showes least deemed any ills.
The hungry fyshe feares not the bayte to Brooke,
Till vp the lyne doe pluck him by the gylls,
And fast in throate hee feeles the deadly hooke.
Woe Iason, woe to thee most wretched man,
Or rather wretch Medea woe to thee,
Woe to the one that thus dissemble can,
Woe to the other that trayned so might bee.
Thoughtst thou Medea his eyes to bee the glasse,
Wherein thou might the Face of thoughts beholde?
That in his breast with wordes so couered was,
As cancred brasse with glosse of yealow golde?
Did thou suppose that nature (more then kinde)
Had placde his heart his lying lyppes betweene,
His lookes to be the mirrour of his minde?
Fayth in fayre Face hath sildome yet ben seene.
Who listneth to the flatering Maremaides note,
Must needes commit his tyred eyes to sleepe,
Yeelding to her the taking of his boate,
That meanes vnware to drowne him in the deepe,
What booteth thee Medea to betray
The golden Fleece, to fawning Iasons hande,
From Dragons teeth him safely to conuay,
And fyry Bulles the warders of the lande?
Why for his sake from father hast thou fled,
And thrust thy selfe out from thy natiue soyle?
Thy brothers bloud what ayled thee to shed,
With Iason thus to trauell and to toyle?
Beholde the meede of this thy good desarte,
The recompence that hee to thee doth gyue.
For pleasure, payne, for ioy, most eger smarte,
With clogging cares in banishment to liue.
Thou, and thy Babes, are like to begge and starue.
In Nation straunge, (O myserable lyfe)
Whyle Iason from his promyses doe swarue,
And takes delight in his new wedded Wyfe,
O Ground vngrate, that when the husband man
Hath tilled it, to recompence his toyle
No Corne, but Weedes, and Thystles render can,
To stinge his handes, that Fruict seekes of his Soyle.
Such venome growes of pleasaunt coloured flower:
Loe, Prynces loe, what deadly poyson sup
Of Bane, erst sweete, now turned into sower,
Medea dranke out of a goulden Cup,