CREUSA.  Let her sing, I pray. 
             She hath conned it o’er and o’er, to know it well,
             Indeed she hath!

JASON.  Well, sing it, sing it then!

CREUSA (to MEDEA).

So, pluck the second string.  Thou know’st it still?

MEDEA (drawing her hand across her brow as if in pain).

I have forgotten!

JASON.  Ay, said I not so? 
             She cannot sing it.—­Other songs are hers,
             Like that which, with her magic arts, she sang
             Unto the dragon, that he fell asleep. 
             That was no pure, sweet strain, like this of thine!

CREUSA (whispering in MEDEA’s ear).

“Ye gods above, ye mighty gods—.”

MEDEA (repeating it after her).

“Ye gods above—­”
O gods in heaven, O righteous, mighty gods!

[She lets the lyre fall to the ground, and clasps both hands before her eyes.]

CREUSA.  She weeps!  Canst be so stern and hard?

JASON (holding CREUSA back from MEDEA).

                     Thou art

A child, and canst not know us, what we are! 
The hand she feels upon her is the gods’,
That reacheth her e’en here, with bloody gripe! 
Then strive not thou to balk the gods’ just doom. 
O, hadst thou seen her in the dragon’s cave,
Seen how she leaped to meet that serpent grim,
Shot forth the poisonous arrows of her tongue,
And darted hate and death from blazing eyes,
Then were thy bosom steeled against her tears!—­
Take thou the lyre, sing thou to me that song,
And exorcise the hateful demon here
That strangles, chokes me!  Thou canst sing the song,
Mayhap, though she cannot.

CREUSA.  Ay, that I will.

[She stoops to take up the lyre.]

MEDEA (gripping CREUSA’s arm with one hand and holding her back, while with the other she herself picks up the lyre).

Let be!

CREUSA.  Right gladly, if thou’lt play.

MEDEA.  Not I!

JASON.  Thou wilt not give it her?

MEDEA.  No!

JASON.  Nor to me?

MEDEA.  No!

JASON (striding up to her and grasping at the lyre).

I will take it, then!

MEDEA (without moving from her place, but drawing the lyre away from him).

No!

JASON.  Give it me!

MEDEA (crushing the lyre, so that it breaks with a loud, cracking sound).

Here, take it!  Broken!  Thy fair lyre is broken!

[She flings the pieces down in front of CREUSA.]

CREUSA (starting back in horror).

Dead!

MEDEA (looking swiftly about her as in a daze).

Dead?  Who speaks of death?  I am alive!