 | Medea |  |
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Scene II.
Enter MEDEA, and her NURSE.NURSE.
Fly! fly, Medea! quickly hence be gone,
And seek with speed some other Region.
Me.
How should we fly!—No; were we fled, to see
This Day, we would return again; to be
Spectatress of these Gallant Nuptials.—Heart!
Dost stop? pursue thy happy Rage; this part
Of thy enjoy'd Revenge, what is't?—Distraught!
Dost thou yet love? is widowed Jason thought
Sufficient? work, Medea, work! invent
Some strange unusual kind of Punishment.
Hence with all Right, expulsed Shame be gone.
“That's poor Revenge, which Hands yet pure have done.
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Thy drooping Thoughts, and with more eager Might
Rouze up th'old sparks of Rage hid in thy Breast.
What we have done already, to the rest
W'intend, may be call'd Piety: now ply't;
Let the World know how vulgar and how slight
Our former Ills were, but as Preludes to
Ensuing Rage. What could such rude Hands do,
Might be term'd great? or by a Girl be shown?
We're now Medea; our Invention grown,
As our Ills multiply'd. Now, now we're joy'd,
We lopt our Brother's Head, and did divide
His bleeding Limbs; that we our Father spoil'd
Of his Crowns sacred Treasure; and beguil'd
Daughters to take up parricidal Arms.
Seek matter for thy Fury, for all Harms
That brings a Hand prepar'd.—Wrath whither, oh!
Transported art thou? 'Gainst what treach'rous Foe
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But what I know not, hath within design'd,
Nor dares t'her self disclos't—Fool, I have been
Too fondly rash. Oh that I could have seen
Some Children of the Strumpet got!—What's thine
By Jason think Creusa bore. This kind
Of Vengeance likes; and likes deservedly.
The height of Ills, with a Resolve as high
Attempt: You, we did once our Children call,
For your Sire's Crimes a Satisfaction fall,
—Horror invades my Heart; an icy Cold
Stiffens my Limbs; my Breast pants; Wrath his hold
Hath left, and there (a Wive's stern Passions quit)
A Mother's soft restor'd Affections sit.
We in our Childrens Blood our hands imbrue?
Ah! better Thoughts distracted Griefs pursue!
Far be it from Medea yet, to act
So foul a Sin, or so abhor'd a Fact.
What Crime, poor Wretches! shall they suffer for?
—Their Father's Crime enough, and greater far
Their Mother. Let 'em die, they're none of mine.
Hold! they're thine own: then perish because thine.
Alas! they're innocent: without a touch
Of Guilt: 'tis true; my Brother too was such.
Why stagger'st thou my Soul? or why do Tears
Water my Cheeks? whilst Passion this way bears
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Toss'd in an Eddy of uncertain Tides.
As when the Winds wage war, the passive Waves
Are counter-rockt, the Sea a Neuter raves.
So floats my wreckt Heart; now Wrath wins the Field,
Now Piety; to Piety Wrath yield.
Oh! you, the only Joy and Comfort left
Of our sad State! now of all else bereft;
Come hither, my dear Children! and with mine
Your little Arms in close Embraces join.
May in your Lives your Father yet delight,
Whilst I your Mother may—Exile and Flight
Inforce me on: strait from my Arms with Cries
Will they be torn; then perish from all Joys
Of Father as of Mother. Grief again
Renews; my Hate boils high, my heated Brain
Its old Rage fires, and stirs m'abhorred Hand
Up to new Mischief. On then, thy Command
We follow. Would an Issue from my Womb
As numerous as Niobe's had come.
And twice seven Children had from us deriv'd
Their Births: our Barrenness hath ev'n depriv'd
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As Victims to our Brother and our Sire.
—Whither does this dire Troop of Furies bend?
Whom seek they? where their fiery Strokes intend?
'Gainst whom shake they their bloody Brands, Snakes wound
In lashing Whips with horrid Hisses sound.
Whom does Megæra with infestive post
Pursue? what yet unknown dismember'd Ghost,
Is this appears? 'tis my Brother's, come to crave
Vengeance of us; and Vengeance shalt thou have.
But first, fix all these Fire-brands in my Eyes;
Tear, burn; my Breast to Furies open lies.
Hence these dread Ministers of Vengeance send,
And bid these Spirits satisfi'd descend.
Leave me to my self, Brother; to imploy
This Arm in thy revenge, that did destroy
Thy Life; thus with this Victim we appease
Thy injur'd Ghost.—What suddain Sounds are these?
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Up to the Houses top force thy Ascent:
Finish thy Murder there. Come you with me
My small Companion: whilst this Body we
Convey along. Now, Soul, thy task intend,
Nor thy brave Mischief unregarded end
In secret; shew't the People, let them stand,
Th'amaz'd Spectators of thy Tragick hand.
| Medea | |