(To the slave.)

Go, thou, and all the others,
And pluck green branches from the budding trees
To mark you suppliants.  ’Tis the custom here. 
And keep a quiet, peaceful mien.  Dost hear? 
Now go.

[They depart.]

MEDEA.  Thou’rt full of thought?

JASON.  Ay, full.

MEDEA.  Thou givest
             Thyself no rest.

JASON.  A fugitive—­and rest? 
             There is no rest for such, but only flight.

MEDEA.  Last night thou didst not close thine eyes in sleep,
             But wand’redst forth in the murky night, alone.

JASON.  I love the night; the sunlight hurts my eyes.

MEDEA.  And thou hast sent a message to the king. 
             Will he receive us kindly?

JASON.  That I wait
             To hear.

MEDEA.  He is thy friend?

JASON.  He was.

MEDEA.  Then sure
             His heart will soften.

JASON.  Even the kindest men
             Shun friendship with the accurst.  And thou dost know
             How all the world doth flee us, since the death
             Of my false uncle, Pelias, whom some god
             In devilish sport caused to be strangled.  Thus
             The people whisper that I slew him, I,
             Thy husband, from that land of magic come. 
             Dost thou not know this?

MEDEA.  Yea.

JASON.  Here’s cause enough
             To wake and wander all the dark night through.—­
             But what hath brought thee forth, before the sun
             Is up?  What seek’st thou in this darkling hour? 
             Calling old friends from Colchis?

MEDEA.  Nay.

JASON.  Speak truth!

MEDEA.  I say, I am not.

JASON.  And I say to thee,
             Better for thee if thou forget all such. 
             Pluck no more herbs, brew no more poison-drinks,
             Nor commune with the moon, let dead men’s bones
             Rot in their graves at peace!  Such magic arts
             This folk here love not,—­and I hate them, too! 
             This is not Colchis dark,—­but sunny Greece;
             Not hideous monsters, but our fellow-men
             Dwell round about us.  Come, henceforth, I know,
             Thou wilt give o’er these rites and magic spells;
             I have thy promise, and I know thee true.—­
             That crimson wimple bound about thy hair
             Calls long-forgotten scenes to memory. 
             Why wilt not wear our country’s wonted dress? 
             I was a Colchian on thy Colchian soil;
             Be thou a Greek, now I have brought thee home. 
             The past is dead.  Why call it back to life? 
             Alas!  It haunts us yet, do what we will!