JASON.  Fulfil, O King, thy sentence on my wife! 
             She can no longer tarry where I am,
             So, let her go; the sentence is not harsh. 
             Forsooth, though I am less to blame than she,
             My lot is bitt’rer, harder far than hers. 
             She but returns to that grim wilderness
             Where she was born, and, like a restive colt
             From whom the galling yoke is just removed,
             Will rush to freedom, and become once more
             Untamed and stubborn. 
             But my place is here;
             Here must I sit and while away the days
             In meek inaction, burdened with the scorn
             And scoffing of mankind, mine only task
             Dully to muse upon my vanished past.

KING.  Thou wilt be great and famous yet again,
             Believe me.  Like the bow which, once set free
             From the fierce strain, doth speed the arrow swift
             And straight unto its mark, whenso the hand
             Is loosed that bent it, so wilt thou spring back
             And be thyself again, once she is gone.

JASON.  Naught feel I in my breast to feed such hopes! 
             Lost is my name, my fame; I am no more
             Than Jason’s shadow, not that prince himself.

KING.  The world, my son, is not so harsh as thou: 
             An older man’s misstep is sin and crime;
             The youth’s, a misstep only, which he may
             Retrace, and mend his error.  All thy deeds
             In Colchis, when thou went a hot-head boy,
             Will be forgot, if thou wilt show thyself
             Henceforth a man.

JASON.  O, might I trust thy words,
             I could be happy once again!

KING.  Let her
             But leave thy side, and thou wilt say I’m right. 
             Before the Amphictyons’ judgment-seat I’ll go
             And speak for thee, defend thy righteous cause,
             And prove that it was she alone, Medea,
             Who did those horrid deeds wherewith thou’rt charged,
             Prove her the wanton, her the darksome witch. 
             Lifted shall be the doom of banishment
             From off thy brow.  If not, then thou shalt rise
             In all thy stubborn strength, and to the breeze
             Unfurl the glorious banner of pure gold
             Which thou didst bring from earth’s most distant land,
             And, like a rushing torrent, all the youth
             Of Greece will stream to serve thee once again
             And rally ’round thy standard to oppose
             All foes that come, rally ’round thee, now purged
             Of all suspicion, starting life anew,
             The glorious hope of Greece, and of the Fleece
             The mighty hero!—­Thou hast got it still?