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Creon.
And next my children is my city dear. 330 (329)
Medea.
Ah me! How great an ill to man is love!
Creon.
That is, I doubt, as fortune waits on it.
Medea.
Zeus, be it not hid from thee who caused these ills!
Creon.
Hence, thou weak fool, and free me from these troubles.
Medea.
I am the troubled, with full store of troubles. 335 (334)
Creon.
Ere long my guards shall thrust thee out by force.
Medea.
Nay, nay, not thus. Oh but I pray thee, Creon.
Creon.
Thou wilt cause violence, woman, as I see.
