And wanton, but I was not ever so;
Though I can feel how one may learn to be. 
For dread and awful thoughts do shape themselves
Within my soul; I shudder—­yet rejoice
Thereat!  When all is finished—­Gora, hither!

GORA.  What wouldst thou?

MEDEA.  Come to me!

GORA.  And why?

MEDEA.  Come hither! 
             See!  There they lay, the babes—­ay, and the bride,
             Bleeding, and dead!  And he, the bridegroom, stood
             And looked and tore his hair!  A fearful sight
             And ghastly!

GORA.  Heaven forfend!  What mean these words?

MEDEA.  Ha, ha!  Thou’rt struck with terror then, at last? 
             Nay, ’tis but empty words that I did speak. 
             My old, fierce will yet lives, but all my strength
             Is vanished.  Oh, were I Medea still—! 
             But no, I am no more!  O Jason, why,
             Why hast thou used me so?  I sheltered thee,
             Saved thee, and gave thee all my heart to keep;
             All that was mine, I flung away for thee! 
             Why wilt thou cast me off, why spurn my love,
             Why drive the kindly spirits from my heart
             And set fierce thoughts of vengeance in their place? 
             I dream of vengeance, when I have no more
             The power to wreak revenge!  The charms I had
             From my own mother, that grim Colchian queen,
             From Hecate, that bound dark gods to me
             To do my bidding, I have buried them,
             Ay, and for love of thee!—­have sunk them deep
             In the dim bosom of our mother Earth;
             The ebon wand, the veil of bloody hue,
             Gone!—­and I stand here helpless, to my foes
             No more a thing of terror, but of scorn!

GORA.  Then speak not of them if they’ll serve thee not!

MEDEA.  I know well where they lie;
             For yonder on the plashy ocean-strand
             I coffined them and sank them deep in earth. 
             ’Tis but to toss away a little mold,
             And they are mine!  But in my inmost soul
             I shudder when I think on such a venture,
             And on that blood-stained Fleece.  Methinks the ghosts
             Of father, brother, brood upon their grave
             And will not let them go.  Dost thou recall
             How on the pavement lay my old, gray sire
             Weeping for his dead son, and cursing loud
             His daughter?  But lord Jason swung the Fleece
             High o’er his head, with fierce, triumphant shouts! 
             ’Twas then I swore revenge upon this traitor
             Who first did slay my best-beloved, now
             Would slay me, too!  Had I my bloody charms