ACTUS QUINTUS 15
So many thoughts—or ever I was ware—
And he—the cauldron seethes——
MEDEA,
He rises not?
ALCESTIS.
Nought but moist smoke springs up.
MEDEA.
Alas! for me!
All is but lost.
ALCESTIS.
Canst thou do anything?
MEDEA.
Nothing. Ai Ai!
ALCESTIS.
Ai Ai!
CHORUS.
Ai Ai! Ai Ai!
JASON.
What! Shall the hunter find his joy abroad,
And sorrow in his house?
MEDEA.
Thy very hearth
Polluted with the old man’s blood!
ACASTUS.
What blood?
Answer me, woman!