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Fortune, it seems, on Jason will to-day

Justly heap many woes. Oh hapless one,

Daughter of Creon, how we mourn thy fate,

Who to the halls of Hades art gone forth

Because of Jason's marrying with thee.

My friends, this purpose stand approved to me,

Slaying my boys to hurry from this realm;

Not, making weak delays, to give my sons

By other and more cruel hands to die.

Nay, steel thyself my heart. Why linger we

As not to do that horror which yet must be?

Come, oh my woeful hand, take take the sword:

On to my new life's mournful starting point,

And be no coward, nor think on thy boys,

How dear, how thou didst give them birth. Nay rather

For this short day forget they are thy sons:

Then weep them afterwards. For though thou slay'st them

Oh but they're dear, and I a desolate woman.