The Argonauts

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! 17