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 What 'twere, not to have lost one's fatherland.

She loathes her sons, nor now joys seeing them.

Aye, but I dread her lest she plot some burst:

For she's high-stomached, nor will tamely bear

Wrongs put on her; I know her and I doubt her

Lest she slay those royal ones, yea and with them

The bridegroom, and go on to worser ills:

For she's unbending: not with ease, forsooth,

Will any sworn her foe chant victory.

But I perceive her boys, their races ceased,

Corning, unmindful of their mother's griefs;

For the young heart cares not to sorrow long.

Thou good old chattel of my lady's home,

Why, dawdling solitary at the gates,

Dost stand and croon of troubles to thyself?

Why has Medea willed thee leave her thus?

Reverend attendant upon Jason's sons,

The masters' luck fallen wrong to worthy servants

Is their calamity and racks their hearts:

And I have reached to such a pitch of pain