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 Of the country she has come to, by that flight,

Herself to Jason in all things conformed—

In which the better part of safety lies

That the woman should not differ from the man.

Now all's ajar and dearest love is sick:

For, his children and my mistress both betrayed,

Jason in royal spousals beds him, wed

To Creon's daughter, liege lord of this land.

But Medea, the forlorn, dishonoured cries

Upon his oaths, appeals to that chief troth

Of plighting hands, and calls the gods to mark

With what requital she from Jason meets.

Refusing food, her body anguish-prone,

Floating the hours from her in tears, she lies

Since first she knew her by her husband wronged;

And will not raise her eyes, nor from the ground

Lift up her face. As a rock might or sea-wave,

Does she hear those who love her counselling her,

Save when, averting her so pallid neck,

For her dear father she bemoans herself,

Her land and home deserted when she fled

With the man who does her this dishonour now.

She, hapless, sees now in her misery