Page:Medea (Webster 1868).djvu/69

 Alas for her doom!

Round about her yellow hair

Her own hand will set it there,

Signet jewel of the tomb.

By the grace and the perfect gleaming won

She will place the gold-wrought crown on her head,

She will robe herself in the robe; and anon

She will deck her a bride among the dead.

Alas for her doom!

Fallen in such snare, too late

Would she struggle from her fate,

Hers the death-lot of the tomb.

But thou, oh wretched man, oh woeful-wed,

Yet marriage-linked to kings; thou all unseeing,

Who nearest fast

A swift destruction to thy children's being,

A hateful death to her who shares thy bed,

Oh hapless man, how fallen from thy past!