TUTOR, MEDEA, CHORUS.

TUT.  Thy sons, my mistress, are reprieved from banishment, and the royal bride received thy presents in her hands with pleasure, and hence is peace to thy children.

MED. Ah!

TUT.  Why dost thou stand in confusion, when thou art fortunate?

MED. Alas! alas!

TUT.  This behavior is not consonant with the message I have brought thee.

MED. Alas! again.

TUT.  Have I reported any ill fortune unknowingly, and have I failed in my hope of being the messenger of good?

MED. Thou hast said what thou hast said, I blame not thee.

TUT.  Why then dost thou bend down thine eye, and shed tears?

MED. Strong necessity compels me, O aged man, for this the Gods and I deliberating ill have contrived.

TUT.  Be of good courage; thou also wilt return home yet through thy children.

MED. Others first will I send to their home,[29] O wretched me!

TUT.  Thou art not the only one who art separated from thy children; it behooves a mortal to bear calamities with meekness.

MED. I will do so; but go within the house, and prepare for the children what is needful for the day.  O my sons, my sons, you have indeed a city, and a house, in which having forsaken me miserable, you shall dwell, ever deprived of a mother.  But I am now going an exile into a foreign land, before I could have delight in you, and see you flourishing, before I could adorn your marriage, and wife, and nuptial-bed, and hold up the torch.[30] O unfortunate woman that I am, on account of my wayward temper.  In vain then, my children, have I brought you up, in vain have I toiled, and been consumed with cares, suffering the strong agonies of child-bearing.  Surely once there was a time when I hapless woman had many hopes in you, that you would both tend me in my age, and when dead would with your hands decently compose my limbs, a thing desired by men.  But now this pleasing thought hath indeed perished; for deprived of you I shall pass a life of misery, and bitter to myself.  But you will no longer behold your mother with your dear eyes, having passed into another state of life.  Alas! alas! why do you look upon me with your eyes, my children?  Why do ye smile that last smile?  Alas! alas! what shall I do? for my heart is sinking.  Ye females, when I behold the cheerful look of my children, I have no power.  Farewell my counsels:  I will take my children with me from this land.  What does it avail me grieving their father with the ills of these, to acquire twice as much pain for myself? never will I at least do this.  Farewell my counsels.  And yet what do I suffer? do I wish to incur ridicule, having left my foes unpunished?  This must be dared.  But the bringing forward words of tenderness in my mind arises also from my cowardice.  Go, my children, into the house; and he for whom it is not lawful to be present at my sacrifice, let him