8 ARGONAUTAE
CHORUS.
Thy bitter love disturbed that solitude?
MEDEA.
Not bitter, heroes. See ye yet the end?
CHORUS.
Our good quest ended by thy father’s hate,
And by thy own hour’s madness! This I see.
MEDEA.
But if he gain the Fleece?
CHORUS.
A blissful end.
MEDEA.
This end and that are moulded diversely.
CHORUS.
Riddle no more, nor ply with doubtful hope
Hearts ready to rejoice and to despair
Equally minded.
MEDEA.
At the midmost hour,
His mind given up to sleepless muttering
Of charms not mine—decrees Olympian—
All on a sudden he felt fervent arms
Flung round him, and a sweet hot body’s rush
Lithe to embrace him, and a cataract
Of amber-scented hair hissing about
His head, and in the darkness two great eyes
Flaming above him, and the whole face filled