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Yes, we ourselves have seen, our speech

Is not of words that others teach,

Since, by most dread despair brought low,

Thee hath no city cared for, no,

Nor any friend. Let shameful blight

Slay him who gives not friends their right,

Unlocking them his heart's pure store:

Let him be friend of mine no more.

Medea, hail; since sooth no fairer greeting

Hath any known wherewith to reverence friends.

Oh hail, thou too, son of the wise Pandion,

Ægeus. Whence comst thou to this country's plains?

Last from the ancient oracle of Phœbus.

But wherefore sent to earth's prophetic centre?

Searching how children might be raised to me.