CREUSA.  I’ve pondered that, but cannot understand.—­
             Yet, if thou truly lov’st him, I will take thee
             Back to my heart again, and show thee means
             Whereby thou mayst regain his love.—­I know
             Those bitter moods of his, and have a charm
             To scatter the dark clouds.  Come, to our task! 
             I marked this morning how his face was sad
             And gloomy.  Sing that song to him; thou’lt see
             How swift his brow will clear.  Here is the lyre;
             I will not lay it down till thou canst sing
             The song all through. [She seats herself.]
                              Nay, come!  Why tarriest there

MEDEA.  I gaze on thee, and gaze on thee again,
             And cannot have my fill of thy sweet face. 
             Thou gentle, virtuous maid, as fair in soul
             As body, with a heart as white and pure
             As are thy snowy draperies!  Like a dove,
             A pure, white dove with shining, outspread wings,
             Thou hoverest o’er this life, nor yet so much
             As dipp’st thy wing in this vile, noisome slough
             Wherein we wallow, struggling to get free,
             Each from himself.  Send down one kindly beam
             From out thy shining heaven, to fall in pity
             Upon my bleeding breast, distraught with pain;
             And all those ugly scars that grief and hate
             And evil fortune e’er have written there,
             Oh, cleanse thou these away with thy soft hands,
             And leave thine own dear picture in their place! 
             That strength, that ever was my proudest boast
             From youth, once tested, proved but craven weakness. 
             Oh, teach me how to make my weakness strong!

[She seats herself on the low stool at CREUSA’s feet.]

Here to thy feet for refuge will I fly,
And pour my tale of suffering in thine ear;
And thou shalt teach me all that I must do. 
Like some meek handmaid will I follow thee,
Will pace before the loom from early morn,
Nay, set my hand to all those lowly tasks
Which maids of noble blood would scorn to touch
In Colchis, as but fit for toiling serfs,
Yet here they grace a queen.  Oh, I’ll forget
My sire was Colchis’ king, and I’ll forget
My ancestors were gods, and I’ll forget
The past, and all that threatens still!

[She springs up and leaves CREUSA’s side.]

But no! 
That can I not forget!

CREUSA (following her).

Why so distressed? 
Men have forgotten many an evil deed
That chanced long since, ay, even the gods themselves
Remember not past sorrows.

MEDEA (embracing her).