ACTUS TERTIUS
Bronzed with a ruder sun than ours, and scarred
(Rough tokens of old battles) yet so calm
And mild (with all that vigour) that to me
Came a swift pity—the enchanter’s bane.
That I flung from me. But my subtle soul
Struck its own bosom with the sword of thought,
So that I saw not pity, but desire!
CHORUS.
Surely a bane more potent than the first.
MEDEA.
Love is itself enchantment!
CHORUS.
Some kind god
Whispers from this a little light of hope.
MEDEA.
Only the hopeless are the happy ones.
CHORUS.
But didst thou turn him from his gleaming goal?
Cover that shame with sweeter shame than this?
MEDEA.
Thou knowest that his vigil was to keep,
Invoking all Olympus all the night,
And then to yoke the oxen, and to plough
The fearful furrow, sow the dreadful seed,
Smite down the armies, and assuage the pest
Of slime thrice coiled about the sacred grove.