22
Medea.
Alas! I hapless perish utterly!
For now my enemies crowd on all sail,
And there is no near haven from despair. 280 (279)
But yet, though bowed with wrongs, will I dare speak:
Why dost thou drive me from thy country, Creon?
Creon.
I fear thee—it boots not to cloke my thoughts—
Lest thou shouldst work my child some mortal ill.
And many things make jointly to this dread. 285 (284)
Thou art much wise, and subtle in dread lores,
And thou art wroth, lorn of thy husband's bed;
Nay, I hear, threatst, so word came, some dire deed
On bridegroom and on bride and him who gave her.
Therefore I keep guard ere I surfer this. 290 (289)
Aye lady, better win thy present hate
Than, softened by thee, later mourn it long.
Medea.
Ah me! Ah me!
Not now first, Creon, but a many times
Hath this fame stricken me and wrought me ill.
But never fits it one born prudent-souled 295 (295)
