ACTUS TERTIUS
Our prow plunge solemn in the Argive waters
To strains of music—victory at peace
Mingling with sweeter epithalamy—
To tell our friends how happy was the quest.
MEDEA.
But not those strains of music, though divine
From Orpheus’ wingéd lyre, exalt at all
Our joy to joy, beyond all music’s power!
CHORUS.
I fear Aeetes and the Pelian guile.
JASON.
Fear is but failure, herald of distress!
MEDEA,
What virtue lives there in the coward’s heart?
CHORUS.
In sooth, I have no fear at all—to flee.
JASON.
Night, like a mist, steals softly from the East.
The hand of darkness gathers up the folds
Of day’s gold garment, and the valleys sink
Into slow sadness, though the hills retain
That brilliance for a little.
CHORUS.
Let us go!
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