The Argonauts

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.