 | Medea |  |
SCENE the NINTH.
MEDEA on the ground, COLCHIANS and PHÆACIANS.FIRST COLCHIAN
entring.
The streaming purple of the western Sun
Glows on these tow'rs and pinnacles again,
Prevailing o'er the darkness, which the wand
Of our sage mistress rais'd—Dejecting sight!
Thy faithful servant can refrain no longer,
But tears must wash the furrows of his cheeks.
MEDEA.
Ah! how much more my eyes should stream in torrents!
Ah! how much stronger should my bosom heave,
And sound its agonies in bitter groans
To the remorseless gods! Destroy my Jason!
[Starting up.
The dear, false hero! Perish first my art.
FIRST PHÆACIAN.
How oft have perjur'd lovers been recall'd
By strong enchantment? Check these vain complaints.
Hast thou not magic to constrain this wand'rer
Back to thy arms?
55
I have, but scorn the arts,
Which may command his person, not his love.
No, fly to Jason. Let the only charm
Be soft persuasion to attract him hither.
O he is gentle, as the summer's breeze,
With looks and gestures fashion'd by the graces.
The messenger be thou, discreet and good.
Medea's pride shall stoop.
FIRST COLCHIAN.
I go—though hopeless.
[Aside.
MEDEA.
Mean time will I to yonder wood return,
And some deep-shaded receptacle chuse.
There, wrapt in darkness, shall my suff'ring soul
The sense of all its injuries disburthen
In secret murmurs, till its rage be spent.
| Medea | |