University of Virginia Library

THE FIRST ACTE.

Medea,
O Gods whose grace doth guide their ghostes that ioy in wedlocke pure,
O Iuno thou Lucina hight, on whom the chary cure
Alotted is of those, that grone in paynfull chyldbed bandes,
O Pallas by whose heauenly arte, Sir Typhis cunning handes
Haue learnde to bridle with his helme his newly framed boate,
Where with the force of fighting fluds hee breaking rides a floate.
O God whose forked Mace doth stormes in rigour rough appeas,
And cause the ruffling surges couch amid the rampinge Seas:
O Titan who vpon the swift and werling Hemisphær
Deuides the chearefull day and night by egall turnes t'appere,
O threefolde shapen Hecate that sendest forth thy light,
Unto thy silent Sacrifice that offered is by night,
By whom my Iason sware to mee O heauenly powers all,
And yee on whom Medea may with safer conscience call,
O Dungeon darke, most dreadfull den of euerlasting night,
O dampned Ghosts: O kingdome set against the Gods aright:
O Lord of sad and lowring lakes, O Lady dyre of Hell,
(Whom though that Pluto stale by force yet did his troth excell
The ficke fayth of Iasons loue, that hee to mee doth beare,
With cursed throate I coniure you, O grisly Ghostes appeare.
Come out, come out, yee hellish hegges, reuenge this deed so dyre,
Bring in your scratting pawes a burning brand of deadly fyre,
Rise vp yee hiddeous diuelish Feendes, as dreadfull as yee weare,
When vnto me in wedlocke state yee did sometime appeare.
Worke yee, worke yee, the dolefull death of this new wedded Wyfe.
And martir yee this Father in lawe: depryue of breath and lyfe
King Creons ruthfull family: in plunge of passing payne
Torment yee mee, that on my spouse doe wishe this woe to raygne:
Preserue my Iasons life, but yet let him be bayled out
A myching, roging, rūnagate, in forren townes about.
To passe from dore to dore, with care to begge his needy bread,
Not knowing in what harbring place to couch his curssed head:
A banisht wretch, disdaynde of all, and still in feare of lyfe,
Then let him wish ten thousand times for me agayne his Wyfe:
This famous gest whom euery man will entertayne and haue,
Let him be driuē at straungers gates the table crūmes to craue.
And that my bytter bannings may with mischiefe most abounde,
God graunt in gulph of like distresse his chyldren may be drounde,
To synke in sorrowes stormes, that doe their mother ouerflowe:
Now, now, I haue, I haue the full reueng of all my woe,
I haue dispatcht: my pyteous playnt and wordes in vayne I lose:
What shall not I with vyolence get vp agaynst my foes?
And wring out of theyr wrested hands the wedding torch so bryght?
Shall I not force the firmament to lose his shrinking lyght?
What doth my Graundsirs Phœbus face this heauy hap beholde?
And standyng gasyng at this geare yet westwarde is he rolde,
On glystring chariot hoysted hyghe, and keepes his beaten Race,
Amid the christall colourde skye, why turnes hee not his Face,
Retyring fast into the East backe vp the day to twyne?
O Father Phœbe to me, to me, thy Chariot reynes resigne,
That I aduaunced vp, about the marble skyes may ryde,
Biqueath thy brydle vnto mee, and giue me grace to guide
Thy yoked prauncing teame, with yerking lasshe of burning whip,
That with thy feruent fyry beames on purple poole doe skip.
Let Corynth countrey burnt to dust by force of flame and fyre
Gyue place, that both the tumbled sees may ioyne: whom to retyre
It doth compell, and dassheth of from banke on eyther syde,
Least meete in one their chanels might, whose streames hee doth deuide.
No way to worke theyr deadly woe I haue but this at hande,
That to the wedding I should beare a ruthfull brydall brande,
Anoying Creons carelesse Court: when finished I haue
Such solemne seruice, as that ryght of sacrafice doth craue,
Then at the Aulters of the Gods my chyldren shalbe slayne,
With crimsen colourde bloud of Babes their Aulters will I stayne.
Through Lyuers, Lungs, the Lights & Heart, through euery gut, & gal,
For vengeaunce breake away perforce, and spare no bloude at all:
If any lusty lyfe as yet within thy soule doe rest,
If ought of auncient corage still doe dwell within my brest,
Exile all foolysh Female feare, and pity from thy mynde,
And as th'untamed Tygers vse to rage and raue vnkynde,
That haunt the croking combrous Caues, and clumpred frosen cliues,
And craggy Rockes of Caucasus, whose bitter colde depryues
The soyle of all Inhabitours, permit to lodge and rest,
Such saluage brutish tyranny within thy brasen brest.
What euer hurly burly wrought doth Phasis vnderstand,
What mighty monstrous bloudy feate I wrought by Sea or Land:
The like in Corynth shalbe seene in most outragious guise,
Most hyddious, hatefull, horrible, to heare, or see wyth eyes,
Most diuelish, desperate, dreadfull deede, yet neuer knowne before,
Whose rage shall force heauen, earth, and hell to quake and tremble sore.
My burning breast that rowles in wrath, and doth in rancour boyle,
Sore thrysteth after bloud, and wounds with slaughter, death, & spoyle,
By renting racked lyms from lyms to driue them downe to graue:
Tush, these be but as Fleabytings, that mentioned I haue:
As weyghty things as these I did in greener girlishe age,
Now sorrowes smart doth rub the gall and frets with sharper rage.
But sith my wombe hath yeelded fruict, it doth mee well behoue,
The strength and parlous puissaunce of weightier illes to proue.
Be ready wrath, with all thy might that fury kindle may,
Thy foes to their destruction bee ready to assay:
Of thy deuorsement let the Pryce to match, and counterpayse
The proude & precious pryncely pomp of these new wedding dayes.
How wilt thou from thy spouse depart? as him thou followed hast
In bloud to bath thy bloudy handes and traytrous lyues to wast.
Breake of in time these long delayes, abanden now agayne,
This lewd alliaunce, got by guilt, with greater guilt refrayne.

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,