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431 BC

This translation by Ian Johnston of Malaspina University-College, Nanaimo, BC, has certain copyright restrictions.  For information please use the following link: Copyright.  For comments or question please contact Ian Johnston.

This translation is available as a paperback book from Richer Resources Publications.

[For a brief introductory note to the mythological background of the story of Medea and Jason, click here]


Dramatis Personae

Nurse: a servant of Medea.
Tutor: a servant assigned to Jason's children.
Medea: wife of Jason.
Chorus: a group of Corinthian women.
Creon: king of Corinth.
Jason: husband of Medea.
Aegeus: king of Athens.
Messenger: a servant of Jason's.
: Medea's and Jason's two young sons.
Attendants on Creon and Jason.


[Outside the home of Jason and Medea in Corinth. The Nurse, a slave who serves Medea, is standing by herself]

      Oh how I wish that ship the Argo
      had never sailed off to the land of Colchis,
      past the Symplegades, those dark dancing rocks
      which smash boats sailing through the Hellespont.
      I wish they'd never chopped the pine trees down
      in those mountain forests up on Pelion,
      to make oars for the hands of those great men
      who set off, on Pelias' orders,
      to fetch the golden fleece. Then my mistress,
      Medea, never would've sailed away                                             
      to the towers in the land of Iolcus,
      her heart passionately in love with Jason.
      She'd never have convinced those women,
      Pelias' daughters, to kill their father.
      She'd not have come to live in Corinth here,                                      
      with her husband and her children—well loved
      in exile by those whose land she'd moved to.
      She gave all sorts of help to Jason.
      That's when life is most secure and safe,
      when woman and her husband stand as one.                               
      But that marriage changed. Now they're enemies.
      Their fine love's grown sick, diseased, for Jason,
      leaving his own children and my mistress,
      is lying on a royal wedding bed.
      He's married the daughter of king Creon,
      who rules this country. As for Medea,
      that poor lady, in her disgrace, cries out,                                             
      repeating his oaths, recalling the great trust
      in that right hand with which he pledged his love.
      She calls out to the gods to witness                                             
      how Jason is repaying her favours.
      She just lies there. She won't eat—her body
      she surrenders to the pain, wasting away,
      always in tears, ever since she found out
      how her husband has dishonoured her.
      She's not lifted her eyes up from the ground,
      or raised her head. She listens to advice,
      even from friends, as if she were a stone,
      or the ocean swell, except now and then
      she twists that white neck of hers and weeps,                             
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      crying to herself for her dear father, her home,
      her own land, all those things she left behind,
      to come here with the man who now discards her.
      Her suffering has taught her the advantages
      of not being cut off from one's own homeland.
      Now she hates her children. When she sees them,
      there is no joy in her. And I'm afraid
      she may be up to some new mischief.
      Her mind thinks in extremes. I know her well.
      She'll not put up with being treated badly.                                  
      I worry she may pick up a sharp sword
      and stab her stomach, or else she'll go                                                
      into the house, in silence, to that bed,
      and kill the king and bridegroom Jason.
      Then she'll face an even worse disaster.
      She's a dangerous woman. It won't be easy
      for any man who picks a fight with her
      to think she's beaten and he's triumphed.

[Enter Medea's and Jason's children with their Tutor]

      Here come her children. They've finished playing.
      They've no notion of their mother's troubles.                              
      Young minds don't like to dwell on pain.

      Old slave from my mistress' household,
      why are you here, standing by the gate,                                              
      all alone, complaining to yourself
      about what's wrong? How come Medea
      is willing to stay inside without you?

      Old servant of Jason's children,
      when a master's lot falls out badly,
      that's bad for faithful servants, too—
      it touches their hearts also. My sorrow                                        
      was so great, I wanted to come here,
      to speak to earth and heaven, to tell them
      about the wrongs inflicted on my mistress.

      Unhappy lady! Has she stopped weeping yet?

      Stopped crying? I envy your ignorance.                                               
      Her suffering has only just begun—
      she's not even half way through it.

                                                           Poor fool—
      if I can speak that way about my masters—
      she knows nothing of her latest troubles.

      What's that, old man? Don't spare me the news.                         

      Nothing. I'm sorry I said anything.

      Come on, don't hide it from a fellow slave.
      I can keep quiet if I have to.

      Well, I was passing by those benches
      where the old men gamble by Peirene,
      at the holy spring, and I heard someone say
      (I was pretending I wasn't listening)
      that Creon, king of this country, intends
      to ship the children away from Corinth,                                              
      with their mother, too. I've no idea                                              
      if the story's true or not. I hope it's not.

      But surely Jason wouldn't let his children
      go into exile, even if he's squabbling
      with their mother?

                                          Old devotions fade,
      pushed aside by new relationships.
      Jason is no friend of people in this house.

      If we must add these brand-new troubles
      to our old ones, before we've dealt with them,
      then we're finished.

                                          But listen—the time's not right               
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      to let your mistress know about these things.
      So keep quiet. Don't mention anything.

      Children, do you hear what sort of man
      your father is to you? My curse on him!
      No. He is my master—but a bad man
      to his own family. Of that he's guilty.

      What mortal man is not? Don't you know yet
      all men love themselves more than their neighbours.
      And some are right to do that—while others
      just want some benefit. But this father,                                       
      with his new wife, has no love for his children.

      Come on, children, get inside the house.
      Things will be fine. [To the Tutor] You must keep them away—         
      as far as possible—and don't bring them
      near their mother when she's in this state.
      I've seen her look at them with savage eyes,
      as if she means to injure them somehow. 
      I know this anger of hers will not end,
      not before she turns it loose on someone. 
      I hope it falls on enemies, not on friends!                                   

MEDEA [crying from inside the house]
      I can't stand this pain, this misery.
      What do I do? I wish I could die!

      My dear children, you hear your mother's cry.
      Her heart's upset. Her anger's growing, too.
      So quickly now, run off inside the house.                                           
      Stay out of sight. Don't try to go and see her.
      She's fierce, headstrong by nature. Take care.
      So go now—inside as quickly as you can.

[The Tutor and children enter the house]

      It's obvious the cloud of bitter grief
      rising inside her is only just the start.                                          
      As her temper grows even more intense,
      it will soon catch fire.  She's a passionate soul,
      hard to restrain. What will she do next,
      now her heart's been bitten by these injuries?                                     

MEDEA [from inside the house]
      The pain of this suffering—this intense pain.
      Am I not right to weep? Oh my children,
      cursed children of a hateful mother—
      may you die with your father, all his house,
      may it all perish, crash down in ruins.

      Oh the sorrow of it all. Poor woman!                                          
      Why link your children with the nasty things
      their father's done? Why do you hate them so?
      I'm terrified the children will be hurt.
      The pride of rulers is something to fear—
      they often order men, but seldom listen.                                            
      And when their tempers change it's hard to bear.
      It's better to get used to living life
      as an equal common person. Anyway,
      I don't want a grand life for myself—
      just to grow old with some security.                                            
      They say a moderate life's the best of all,
      a far better choice for mortal men.
      Going for too much brings no benefits.
      And when gods get angry with some home,
      the more wealth it has, the more it is destroyed.                                 

[Enter the Chorus of Corinthian women]

      I heard her voice, I heard the cries
      of that sad lady here from Colchis.
      Has she not calmed down yet? Old nurse, tell me.
      I heard from some household servant in there
      that she's been screaming. I find no pleasure                               
      in this house's suffering. We've been friends.

      This house is finished—already done for.
      For Jason's bound by his new marriage tie                                          
      to the king's daughter. As for my mistress,
      her tears are washing away her life in there,
      inside the house. She finds no consolation
      in the words of any of her friends.

MEDEA [still from inside the house]
      Oh why can't a bolt of lightning strike me?
      What point is there in living any more?
      I want death to come and sweep me off—                                  
      let me escape this life of suffering!

      Oh Zeus and Earth and Sun—
      do you hear how this young wife
      sings out her misery?                                                                           
      Thoughtless lady,
      why long for death's marriage bed
      which human beings all shun?
      Death comes soon enough
      and brings and end to everything.
      You should not pray for it.                                                          
      And if your husband
      devotes himself to some new bed,
      why get angry over that?
      Zeus will plead for you in this.
      Don't waste your life away,
      with too much wailing for your husband.

MEDEA [within] 
      O great Themis and noble Artemis,                                                   
      do you see what I am having to endure,
      when I'm the one who bound that cursed man,
      my husband, with strong promises to me?                                   
      Oh, how I want to see him and his bride
      beaten down, destroyed—their whole house as well—
      for these wrongs they dare inflict on me,
      when I've done nothing to provoke them!
      O father and city, I left you behind
      in my disgrace when I killed my brother.

      Do you hear what's she's saying, how she calls
      to Themis, who hears our prayers, and Zeus,
      who guards, they say, the promises men swear.                                  
      She's bound to do something quite serious                                 
      before this rage of hers comes to an end.

      I wish she'd let us see her face to face
      and listen to what we have to tell her.
      That might calm down her savage temper,
      the fury in her heart. I'd like the chance
      to show good will to a lady whom I like.
      Go now
bring her here outside the house.                                         [180]
      Tell her she'll be among some friends of hers.
      And hurry, before she harms someone in there—
      that power in her grief will make her act.                                    

      All right, though I'm afraid I won't persuade
      my mistress. Still, as a favour to you,
      I'll see what I can do. Right now she glares
      at servants when they come close to her
      to tell her something. She's like a bull,
      or lioness with cubs—that's how she looks.
      Those men from long ago—you'd not be wrong                                 
      to call them fools without much wisdom.
      They thought up songs for celebrations,
      feasts and banquets, bringing to human life                                 
      delightful music. But they found nothing
      in music or the lyre's many strings
      to end the bitterness of human life,
      the pain in living, sorrows bringing on
      the deaths and horrifying disasters
      which destroy whole families. What a blessing
      it would be for human beings if music
      could cure these sorrows. When people feast,                                    
      why should people sing? It's a waste of time.
      People who eat well are happy anyway—                                    
      they've enjoyed the pleasure of the meal.

[Nurse exits into the house]

      I have heard Medea's crying,
      full of sorrow, full of tears,
      her shrill accusations against Jason,
      the husband who's betrayed her.
      Suffering such injustice, she cries out,
      calling the gods—calling Themis,
      Zeus' daughter, goddess of those promises
      which carried her across the ocean
      to Hellas, through the black salt seas,                                          
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      through the place which few men penetrate,
      the strait which guards the Pontic Sea.

[Enter Medea with the Nurse]

      Women of Corinth, I'm coming here,
      outside the house, so you won't think ill of me.
      Many men, I know, become too arrogant,
      both in the public eye and in their homes.
      Others get a reputation for indifference,
      because they stay at ease within the house.
      There's no justice in the eyes of mortal men.
      Before they know someone's deep character,                              
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      they hate her on sight, though she's not hurt them.
      A guest of the city must comply, of course,
      act as the city wants. I don't commend
      a stubborn man, not even a citizen,
      who thanks to his stupidity annoys
      his fellow townsmen. But in my case,
      this unexpected blow that's hit me,
      well, it's destroyed my heart. My life is gone,
      dear friends. I've lost all joy. I want to die.
      The man who was everything to me,                                           
      my own husband, has turned out to be
      the worst of men. This I know is true.
      Of all things with life and understanding,                                           
      we women are the most unfortunate.
      First, we need a husband, someone we get
      for an excessive price. He then becomes
      the ruler of our bodies. And this misfortune
      adds still more troubles to the grief we have.
      Then comes the crucial struggle: this husband
      we've selected, is he good or bad?                                               
      For a divorce loses women all respect,
      yet we can't refuse to take a husband.
      Then, when she goes into her husband's home,
      with its new rules and different customs,
      she needs a prophet's skill to sort out the man
      whose bed she shares. She can't learn that at home.                           
      Once we've worked hard at this, and with success,
      our husband accepts the marriage yoke
      and lives in peace—an enviable life.
      But if the marriage doesn't work, then death                               
      is much to be preferred. When the man tires
      of the company he keeps at home, he leaves,
      seeking relief for his distress elsewhere,
      outside the home. He gets his satisfaction
      with some male friend or someone his own age.
      We women have to look at just one man.
      Men tell us we live safe and secure at home,
      while they must go to battle with their spears.
      How stupid they are! I'd rather stand there
      three times in battle holding up my shield                                   
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      than give birth once. But your story and mine
      are not the same. For you have a city,
      you have your father's house, enjoy your life
      with friends for company. But I'm alone.
      I have no city, and I'm being abused
      by my own husband. I was carried off,
      a trophy from a barbarian country.
      I have no mother, brother, or relation,
      to shelter with in this extremity.
      And so I want to ask something from you.                                  
      If I find some way to punish Jason                                                     
      for these injustices, and his bride, as well,
      and father, too, say nothing. In other things
      a woman may be timid—in watching battles
      or seeing steel, but when she's hurt in love,
      her marriage violated, there's no heart
      more desperate for blood than hers.

      I'll do what you request. For you are right
      to pay back your husband. And, Medea,
      I'm not surprised you grieve at these events.                               

[Enter Creon, with armed attendants]

      I see Creon, king of Corinth, coming.
      He'll be bringing news, announcing
      some new decision that's been made.                                                 

      You there, Medea, scowling in anger
      against your husband. I'm ordering you
      out of Corinth. You must go into exile,
      and take those two children of yours with you.
      Go quickly. I'm here to make quite sure
      that this decree is put into effect.
      I'll not go back to my own palace                                                
      until I've cast you out, beyond our borders.

      Oh, now my sufferings will kill me. It's over.
      My enemies have set full sail against me,
      and there's no way I can avert disaster.
      But, Creon, let me ask you something—                                            
      I'm the one abused, so why banish me?
      What have I done?

                                                      I'm afraid of you.
      I won't conceal the truth. There's a good chance
      you might well instigate some fatal harm
      against my daughter. Many things lead me                                  
      to this conclusion: you're a clever woman,
      very experienced in evil ways;
      you're grieving the loss of your husband's bed;
      and from reports I hear you're making threats
      to take revenge on Jason, on his bride,
      and on her father. Before that happens,
      I'm taking some precautions. Woman,                                                
      it's better that you hate me, than for me
      to grow soft now and then regret it later.

      Alas, this is not the first time, Creon,                                          
      my reputation has badly damaged me.
      It's happened often. No man with any sense
      should ever educate his children
      to know anything beyond what's normal.
      Quite apart from charges of idleness
      which other people bring against them,
      they stir up in their fellow citizens
      a hostile envy. If you offer fools
      some brand new wisdom, they'll consider you
      quite useless, not someone wise. And if,                                     
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      within the city, people think of you
      as greater than those men who seem quite wise,
      you'll appear a nuisance. So it is with me.
      For I'm a knowledgeable woman. I make
      some people envious. Others say I'm shy.
      Some the opposite. Some say I'm hostile.
      I'm not that clever, but still you fear me.
      Have I hurt you at all, made you suffer?
      Don't fear me, Creon. It's not in me
      to commit crimes against the men in charge.                               
      Besides, in what way have you injured me?
      You've married your daughter to a man,
      one your heart selected. My husband's                                               
      the one I hate. In my view, you've acted
      with good sense in this business. So now,
      I'll not begrudge you your prosperity.
      Have your marriage, and good luck to you.
      But let me remain here, in this country.
      Although I've suffered an injustice,
      I'll obey the rulers and stay silent.                                                

      What you say sounds comforting enough,
      but I'm still afraid that heart of yours
      is planning something evil. At this point,
      I trust you even less than previously.
      Passionate people, women as well as men,
      are easier to protect oneself against,                                                   
      than someone clever who keeps silent.
      No. You must leave—and right away.
      No more speeches. I've made up my mind.
      It's not possible for you to stay here,                                           
      not with us, given your hostility to me.

MEDEA [kneeling in front of Creon]
      No, don't send me away. I'm begging you,
      at your knee, in your daughter's name.

      Your words are useless. You won't persuade me.

      You'll send me into exile without hearing
      my supplication?

                                                      Indeed I will.
      I don't love you more than my own family.

      O my homeland! How I'm thinking of you now.

      Except for my own children, my country
      is what I cherish most by far.

      love's a miserable thing for mortal men.                                              

      I think events determine if that's true.

      O Zeus, don't overlook who bears the blame
      for all this evil.

                                          It's time to leave,
      you foolish woman. Time to rid myself
      of all this trouble.

                              We have trouble enough—
      There's no need for any more.

                                                      Come on—
      or my servants will throw you into exile.

      No, don't do that. I beg you, Creon . . .

[Medea seizes Creon's hand]

      Woman, it seems you're trying to provoke me.                            

      All right then. I will go into exile.
      I wasn't begging to escape from that.

      Then why squeeze my hand so hard and not let go?

      Let me remain here one day to prepare,                                              
      to get ready for my exile, to provide
      something for my children, since their father,
      as one more insult, does nothing for them.
      Have pity on them. You're a parent, too.
      You should treat them kindly—that's what's right.
      If I go into exile, I don't care,                                                      
      but I weep for them in their misfortune.

      For a tyrant my will is by nature tender,
      and by feeling pity I've been hurt before,
      more than once. And now, woman, I see
      I'm making a mistake, for you can have                                              
      your extra day. But let me warn you—
      if the sun catches you tomorrow
      within the borders of this country,
      you or your children, you'll be put to death.
      Don't think I'm not telling you the truth.                                    
      So, if you must remain, stay one more day.
      In that time you can't do the harm I fear.

[Exit Creon with his attendants]

      Alas for you, unfortunate woman—
      how wretched your distress. Where will you turn? 
      Where will you find someone to take you in? 
      What country, what home will you find yourself
      to save you from misfortunes?                                                            

      Things have worked out badly in every way.
      Who can deny the fact? But nonetheless,
      you should not assume that's how things will stay.                     
      The newly wedded pair still face some struggles,
      and the man who made this marriage happen
      might have serious problems yet. Do you think
      I'd prostrate myself before a man like that,
      if there was no advantage to be gained?
      If I didn't have some plan in mind,
      I'd not have talked to him or grabbed his hand.                                  
      But the man's become completely foolish—
      when he had the power to prevent me
      from planning anything, by sending me                                       
      out of his land, he let me stay one day,
      a day when I'll turn three of my enemies
      to corpses—father, daughter, and my husband.
      Now, I can slaughter them in many ways.
      I'm not sure which one to try out first.
      Perhaps I should set the bridal suite on fire,
      or sneak into the house in silence,
      right up to their marriage bed, and plunge                                          
      some sharpened steel right through their guts.
      There's just one problem. If I get caught                                     
      going in their house, meaning to destroy it,
      I'll be killed, and my enemies will laugh.
      No. The best method is the most direct,
      the one at which I have a special skill—
      I'll murder them with poison. Yes, that's it.
      But once they're dead, what city will receive me?
      Who'll give me safe shelter as a guest,
      and offer me physical protection?
      There's no one. Still, I'll wait a little while.
      If someone shows up who can shield me,                                    
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      I'll set my scheme in motion and kill them
      without saying a word. But if events
      force me to act openly, I'll use a sword.
      Even though it will bring about my death,
      I'll push my daring to the very limit
      and slaughter them. By Hecate, the goddess
      I worship more than all the others,
      the one I choose to help me in this work,
      who lives with me deep inside my home,
      these people won't bring pain into my heart                                
      and laugh about it. This wedding of theirs,
      I'll make it hateful for them, a disaster—
      Creon's marriage ties, my exile from here,                                           
      he'll find those bitter. So come, Medea,
      call on all those things you know so well,
      as you plan this and set it up. Let the work,
      this deadly business, start. It's a test of wills.
      You see what you have to put up with.
      You must not let Jason's marriage make you
      a laughing stock among Corinthians,                                           
      compatriots of Sisyphus, for you
      trace your family from a noble father
      and from Helios, the sun. So get to work.
      Besides, we have a woman's nature—
      powerless to perform fine noble deeds,
      but very skilled in all the forms of evil.

CHORUS [chanting]
      The waters in the sacred rivers                                                           
      are flowing in reverse.
      And all well-ordered things
      are once more turning on themselves.                                         
      Men's plans are now deceitful,
      their firm trust in the gods is gone.
      My life is changing—common talk
      is giving me a better reputation.
      Honour's coming to the female sex.
      Slander will no longer injure women.                                                  

      Those songs by ancient poets
      will stop chanting of our faithlessness.
      Phoebus, god of song and singing,
      never put into our minds the gift                                                 
      of making sacred music with the lyre,
      or else I would have sung a song
      in response to what the male sex sings.
      For our lengthy past has much to say
      about men's lives as well as ours                                                         

      You sailed here from your father's house,
      your heart on fire, past those two rocks
      that stand guard to the Euxine Sea.
      You live now in a foreign land.
      You've lost your marriage bed,                                                    
      your husband, too, poor woman.
      And now you're driven out,
      hounded into exile in disgrace.

      The honour in an oath has gone.
      And all throughout wide Hellas                                                          
      there's no shame any more.
      Shame has flown away to heaven.
      So to you, unhappy lady,
      no father's house is open,
      no haven on your painful voyage.                                                
      For now a stronger woman
      rules in your household,
      queen of his marriage bed.

[Enter Jason]

      Right now is not the first time I've observed
      how a harsh temper makes all things worse—
      impossibly so. It's happened often.
      You could've stayed here in this land and house,
      if only you'd agreed to the arrangements,
      showed some patience with those in command.
      Now you're exiled for your stupid chatter.                                   
530   [450]
      Not that I care. You don't have to stop
      calling Jason the worst man in the world.
      But when you speak against the ruler here,
      consider yourself very fortunate
      that exile is your only punishment.
      I've always tried to mollify the king—
      he has a vicious temper—and have you stay.
      But you just wouldn't stop this silly rage,
      always slandering the royal house.
      That's why you've got to leave the country.                                
      Anyway, I won't neglect my family.
      I've come here, woman, looking out for you,                                      
      so you won't be thrown out with the children
      in total need and lacking everything.
      Exile brings with it all sorts of hardships.
      Although you may well despise me now,
      I could never have bad feelings for you.

      As a man you're the worst there is—that's all
      I'll say about you, no trace of manhood.
      You come to me now, you come at this point,                            
      when you've turned into the worst enemy
      of the gods and me and the whole human race?
      It isn't courage or firm resolution
      to hurt your family and then confront them,                                       
      face to face, but a total lack of shame,
      the greatest of all human sicknesses.
      But you did well to come, for I will speak.
      I'll unload my heart, describe your evil.
      You listen. I hope you're hurt by what I say.
      I'll begin my story at the very start.                                              
      I saved your life—every Greek who sailed with you
      on board that ship the Argo can confirm it—
      when you'd been sent to bring under the yoke
      the fire-breathing bulls, and then to sow
      the fields of death. And I killed the dragon
      guarding the Golden Fleece, coiled up there,                                      
      staying on watch and never going to sleep.
      For you I raised the light which rescued you
      from death. I left my father and my home,
      on my own, and came with you to Iolcus,                                    
      beneath Mount Pelion. My love for you
      was greater than my wisdom. Then I killed
      Pelias in the most agonizing way,
      at the hands of his own daughters,
      and then destroyed his household, all of it.
      Now, after I've done all this to help you,
      you brute, you betray me and help yourself
      to some new wife. And we have children!
      If you'd had no children, I'd understand                                              
      why you're so keen on marrying this girl.                                     
      And what about the promises you made?
      I don't know if you think the ancient gods
      still govern, or if new regulations
      have recently been put in place for men,
      but you must know you've broken faith with me.
      By this right hand, which you have often held,
      and by my knees, at which you've often begged,
      it was all for nothing to be touched like that,
      by such a worthless man. I've lost all hope.
      But come now. I'll sort things out with you,                                
      as if you were a friend. I've no idea
      what sort of kindness to expect from you.                                          
      But let's see. The things I'll ask about
      will make you look even more disgraceful.
      Where do I now turn? To my father's house?
      For your sake I betrayed my country,
      to come here with you. Then should I go
      to Pelias' daughters in their misery?
      They'd surely welcome me with open arms,
      since I killed their father. That's how things stand.                      
      To my family I'm now an enemy,
      and by assisting you I declared war
      on those whom I had no need to injure.
      For all the ways I've helped you, you made me,
      in the eyes of many wives in Greece,
      a lucky woman, blessed in many things.
      But what a wonderful and trusting husband                                        
      I have in you now, in my misfortune,
      if I go into exile, leave this land,
      with no friends, all alone, abandoned,                                         
      with my abandoned children. And for you,
      what a fine report for a new bridegroom,
      his children wandering round like vagabonds
      with the very woman who saved his life.
      O Zeus, why did you give men certain ways
      to recognize false gold, when there's no mark,
      no token on the human body,
      to indicate which men are worthless.

      When members of a family fight like this,                                           
      rage pushes them beyond all compromise.                                 

      Woman, it seems I'll need to give good reasons,
      and, like a skilled helmsman on a ship,
      haul in my sails and run before that storm
      blowing from your raving tongue. In my view,
      you overestimate your favours to me.
      I consider goddess Aphrodite
      the only one of gods or mortal men
      who saved my expedition. As for you,
      well, you've a subtle mind. But if I told
      how Eros with his unerring arrows                                               
630   [530]
      forced you to save me, I could injure you.
      So I won't press the matter very far.
      However you helped me, you did it well.
      But by saving me you got in return
      more than you gave, as I will demonstrate.
      First of all, you now live among the Greeks,
      not in a country of barbarians.
      You're familiar with justice and the laws,
      rather than brute force. Besides, all the Greeks
      know that you're clever, so you've earned yourself                      
      a fine reputation. If you still lived                                                       
      out there at the boundary of the world,
      no one would talk about you. And great fame
      I'd sooner have than houses filled with gold,
      or the power to sing sweet melodies,
      sweeter than all the songs of Orpheus.
      That's my response to you about my labours.
      Remember you started this war of words.
      As for your complaints about this marriage,
      I'll show you that in this I'm being wise,                                      
      and moderate, and very friendly to you,
      and to my children. You must have patience.                                     
      When I came here from the land of Iolcus,
      I brought with me many troubles, hard ones,
      things impossible for me to deal with.
      What greater good fortune could I have found
      than marrying the daughter of the king,
      me—an exile? On the point that irks you,
      it's not the case I hate our marriage bed,
      overcome with lust for some new bride,                                      
      nor am I keen to rival other men
      in the number of my many children.
      We have enough. I'm not complaining.
      The most important thing for us to do
      is to live well and not in poverty,
      knowing that everyone avoids a friend                                                
      once he's a pauper. As for my children,
      I want to raise them in the proper way,
      one worthy of my house, to have brothers
      for the children born from you, and make them                           
      all the same. Thus, with a united family
      I might prosper. Do you need more children?
      In my case, there's some benefit to have
      new children to help those already born.
      Was this a bad scheme? You'd agree with me,
      if you weren't so upset about the sex.
      But you women are so idiotic—
      you think if everything is fine in bed,
      you have all you need, but if the sex is bad,                                        
      then all the very best and finest things                                         
      you make your enemies. What mortals need
      is some other way to get our children.
      There should be no female sex. With that,
      men would be rid of all their troubles.

      Jason, your reasons here seem logical,
      but it strikes me, if I may presume,
      you're in the wrong abandoning your wife.

      I'm very different from many others,
      in all sorts of ways
in my opinion,
      the unjust man who speaks so plausibly                                       
690    [580]
      brings on himself the harshest punishment.
      Since he's sure his tongue can hide injustice,
      he dares anything. But he's not that clever.
      So you should not parade before me now
      your clever words and specious reasoning.
      One word demolishes your argument:
      if you were not corrupt, you'd ask me first,
      get my consent to undertake this marriage,
      but you didn't even tell your family.

      Oh yes, if I'd told you of the wedding,                                         
      I'm sure you would have lent me fine support.
      Even now you can't stand to set aside
      that huge rage in your heart.                                                               

                                                            You're lying.
      You thought as you grew old a barbarian wife
      would bring you disrespect.

                                                      Get this straight—
      this royal bride I have, I didn't marry her
      because of any woman. As I told you,
      I wanted to save you and have children,
      royal princes, with the same blood as my sons.
      That way my house has more security.                                        

      May I never want a merely prosperous life,
      accepting pain or great wealth at the expense
      of happiness here in my heart.

                                                                     Do you think                         
      you can change that prayer and sound more sensible?
      You should not consider this advantage
      painful, or pretend to be so wretched
      when things are going well for you.

      Keep up the insults. You have your refuge.
      I'm alone and banished from this country.

      That's what you've chosen. The blame rests with you.               

      What did I do? Marry and desert you?

      You kept making all those bitter curses
      against the ruling family here.

      And I'm a curse against your family, too.

      I'm not arguing with you any more                                                      
      about all this. But if you want me
      to provide some money, some assistance
      for you and the children in your exile,
      just ask. I'm prepared to give you some,
      and with a generous hand. I'll send my friends                             
      introductory tokens, so they'll treat you well.
      You'd be mad not to accept this offer.
      Woman, stop being so angry. If you do,
      things will turn out so much better for you.

      I'll accept no assistance from your friends,
      nor anything from you. Don't make the offer.
      Gifts from a worthless man are without value.

      All right, but I call the gods to witness
      I'm willing to help you and the children.                                             
      But you reject my goods and stubbornly                                      
      push away your friends, and that the reason
      you suffer still more pain.

                                                Get out of here.
      For someone so in love with his new bride
      you're spending far too long outside her home.
      Go act married. The gods will see to it
      your marriage will change into one of those
      which makes you wish you'd turned it down.

[Exit Jason]

      Love with too much passion
      brings with it no fine reputation,
      brings nothing virtuous to men.                                                   
      But if Aphrodite comes in smaller doses,                                            
      no other god is so desirable.
      Goddess, I pray you never strike me
      with one of those poisoned arrows
      shot from that golden bow of yours.

      I pray that moderation,
      the gods' most beautiful gift,
      will always guide me.
      I pray that Aphrodite
      never packs my heart with jealousy                                             
      or angry quarreling.
      May she never fill me with desire
      for sex in other people's beds.
      May she bless peaceful unions,                                                           
      using her wisdom to select
      a woman's marriage bed.

      O my country and my home,
      I pray I never lack a city,
      never face a hopeless life,
      one filled with misery and pain.                                                   
      Before that comes, let death,
      my death, deliver me,
      bring my days to their fatal end.
      For there's no affliction worse                                                            
      than losing one's own country.

      I say on this based on what I've seen,
      not on what other people say.
      For you are here without a city—
      you have no friends to pity you,
      as you suffer in this misery,                                                          
      suffer in the harshest way.
      The man who shames his family,                                                        
      who doesn't open up his heart
      and treat them in all honesty—
      may he perish unlamented.
      With him I never could be friends.

[Enter Aegeus, King of Athens]

      I wish you all happiness, Medea.
      There's no better way to greet one's friends.

      All happiness to you, too, Aegeus,
      wise Pandion's son. Where are you coming from?                        

      I've just left Apollo's ancient oracle.

      The prophetic centre of the earth?
      What business took you there?

                                                To ask a question.
      I want to know how I can have some children.

      In the gods' name, have you lived so long                                           
      without ever having any children?

      Not one. Some god is doing this to me.

      Do you have a wife? Or have you stayed unmarried?

      No, I'm married. My wife shares my bed.

      So what did Apollo say about it?                                                  

      Words too wise for human understanding.

      It is appropriate for me to learn them?

      Of course. They need a clever mind like yours.

      What was the prophecy? Tell it to me—
      if it's all right for me to hear.

                                                            He told me this:
      "Don't untie the wineskin's foot. . ."

                                                            Until when?
      Until you do what or reach what country?                                          

      ". . . until you come back to your hearth and home."

      What were you looking for when you sailed here?

      A man called Pittheus, king of Troezen.                                      

      He's Pelops' son. They say he's a very holy man.

      I want to share the god's prophecy with him.

      He's a wise man and skilled in things like that.

      And the friendliest of all my allies.

      Well, good luck. I hope you find what you desire.

      Why are your eyes so sad, your cheeks so pale?

      O Aegeus, my husband has been cruel—                                           
      of all men he's treated me the worst.

      What are you saying? Tell me truly—
      what things have made you so unhappy?                                     

      Jason's abusing me. I've done him no harm.

      What has he done? Give me more details.

      He's taken a new wife. She now rules his home,
      instead of me.

                                    That's completely shameful.
      He hasn't dared something like that, has he?

      Indeed, he has. He's dishonored me, the wife
      he used to love.

                              Is this a new love affair,
      or did he get fed up with you in bed?

      A new love match—he's betrayed his family.

      Leave him, then, since, as you say, he's worthless.                      

      His passion is to marry royalty.

      Who's giving her to him? Tell me the rest.

      Creon, who rules this land of Corinth.

      Then, lady, it's quite understandable
      why you're in such distress.

                                          I'm done for, finished.
      I'm being banished from this country.

      By whom? You're speaking now of some new trouble.

      Creon is driving me out into exile,
      shipping me off, away from Corinth.

      With Jason's full consent? I find that disgraceful.                        

      He says not. Still, he's planning to accept it.
      But, Aegeus, I beg you by your beard,
      and at your knees implore you—have pity.                                         
      Take pity on me in my misfortune.
      Don't let me be exiled without a friend.
      Accept me as a suppliant in your home,
      your native land. If you will take me in,
      may the gods then answer your desire
      to have children. May you die a happy man.
      You don't know what a lucky one you are                                   
      to find me here. I'll end your childlessness.
      I know the sorts of medicines to use,
      and I can help you have many children.

      Lady, I'd like to grant this favour to you,
      for many reasons. First, there's the gods.                                            
      Then, for the children you say I'll produce.
      For there I've lost all sense of what to try.
      Here's what I'll do. If you get to my country,
      I'll strive to treat you as a foreign guest—
      that's the proper thing for me to do.                                            
      But, Medea, I'll give you fair warning:
      I won't plot to get you out of Corinth.
      If you can reach my household on your own,
      you may stay there in safety. Rest assured—
      I won't surrender you to anyone.
      But you must make your own escape from here.
      I don't want my hosts finding fault with me.                                       

      That's fine with me. If you could promise this,
      you'd have done me all the good you can.

      Don't you trust me? What in this still bothers you?                     

      I do trust you. But the house of Pelias
      dislikes me, and so does Creon's, too.
      If you bind yourself to a promise now,
      you'll not hand me over when they come,
      seeking to remove me from your country.
      If you use words, and don't swear by the gods,
      you may become their friend and then comply
      with their political demands. I'm weak,
      and they have wealth, a king's resources.                                           

      What you've just said is very shrewd. All right,                           
      if it's what you want, I'm not unwilling
      to do what you require. Your proposal
      gives me some security. I can show
      those hostile to you I've a good excuse.
      And it makes your position safer.
      Tell me the gods that I should swear by.

      Swear by the plain of Earth, by Helios,
      my father's father, by the family of gods,
      by all of them collectively.

                                                      Tell me
      what I must swear to do and not to do.                                       

      Never to cast me out from your own country.
      And if some enemy of mine asks you                                                  
      if he can take me off, you'll not agree,
      not while you're still alive.

                                                            I swear—
      by the Earth, by Helios' sacred light,
      by all the gods—I'll do what I've just heard.

      That's good. And if you betray this promise,
      what happens to you then?

                                                      May I then suffer
      the punishment that falls on profane men.

      All is well. Now, go your way in peace.                                       
      I'll come to your city as quickly as I can,
      once I've completed what I mean to do,
      and my plans here have been successful.

[Exit Aegeus]

      May Hermes, noble son of Maia,
      go with you on your return, Aegeus.                                                   
      I hope you'll get what your heart's so set on,
      for in my eyes you're a worthy man.

      Oh Zeus, and Justice, child of Zeus,
      and flaming Helios—now, my friends,
      we'll triumph over all my enemies.                                              
      The plans I've made have been set in motion.
      I'm confident my enemies will pay,
      they'll get their punishment. For at the point
      when I was most in trouble, this man came
      and helped me plan safe harbour for myself.
      I'll lash my ship's cable to Aegeus,                                                      
      once I've made it to Athena's city.
      Now I'll tell you all the things I'm planning—
      though you'll get little pleasure from my words.
      I'm going to send one of my household slaves                             
      to ask Jason to come and visit me.
      Once he's here, my words will reassure him.
      I'll tell him I agree with what he's doing,
      that leaving me for this royal alliance
      is a fine idea—he's acted properly
      and made the right decisions. Then I'll ask                                          [
      if my children can remain. My purpose
      is not to leave them in a hostile land
      surrounded by insulting enemies,
      but a trick to kill the daughter of the king.                                  
      For I'll send the children to her with gifts.
      They'll carry presents for the bride, as if
      requesting to be spared their banishment—
      a finely woven robe and a tiara
      of twisted gold. If she accepts those presents
      and puts them on, she'll die—and painfully.
      And so will anyone touching the girl.
      I've smeared strong poisons on those gifts.
      So much for that. I'll say no more about her.                                      
      But the next thing I'll do fills me with pain—                             
      I'm going to kill my children. There's no one
      can save them now. And when I've done this,
      wiped out Jason's house completely, I'll leave,
      evading the punishment I'd receive
      for murdering my darling children,
      a sacrilegious crime. You see, my friends,
      I won't accept my enemies' contempt.
      So be it. What good does life hold for me now?
      I have no father, no home, no refuge.
      I was wrong to leave my father's house,                                      
950    [800]
      won over by the words of that Greek man,
      who now, with the gods' help, will pay the price.
      He'll never see his children alive again,
      the ones I bore him, nor have more children
      with his new bride, for she's been marked to die
      an agonizing death, poisoned by my drugs.
      Let no one think that I'm a trivial woman,
      a feeble one who sits there passively.
      No, I'm a different sort—dangerous
      to enemies, but well disposed to friends.                                     
      Lives like mine achieve the greatest glory.                                          

      Since you've shared your plans with me, I urge you
      not to do this. I want to help you,
      holding to the standards of human law.

      In this matter there's no choice.  I forgive
      what you just said, because, unlike me,
      you don't have to bear this suffering.

      But, lady, can you stand to kill your children?

      Yes. It will be a mortal blow to Jason.

      But as a woman it will devastate you.                                          

      That's beside the point. Until that time
      it's useless to continue talking.

[Medea goes to door of the house and calls inside]

      You in there . . .

[Enter Nurse from the house]

                        . . . go now and fetch Jason here.                                       [820]
      When I need to trust someone, I choose you.
      Tell him nothing of what I mean to do,
      if you like your mistress and are a woman.

[Exit Medea into the house and the Nurse off stage]

CHORUS [chanting]
      Since ancient times, Erechtheus' sons
      have been especially blessed,
      children of the sacred gods,
      from a holy country never conquered,                                         
      never ransacked by its enemies.
      Fed on glorious fruits of wisdom,
      they stride lithely through the sunlit air,                                             
      where, so the story goes, the Muses,
      nine maidens of Pieria, gave birth
      to golden-haired Hermione.

      And people celebrate how Aphrodite,
      while drawing water from the stream,
      the flowing river of the lovely Cephissus,
      breathes down upon the land                                                       
      sweet, temperate winds,                                                                      
      while she binds within her hair
      garlands of sweet-smelling roses,
      sending Love to sit at Wisdom's side,
      to foster all fine things.

      How will this city of sacred streams,
      this land of strolling lovers,
      welcome you—a killer,
      who slaughtered her own children,
      an unholy woman—among its people?                                        
1000   [850]
      Consider this—the killing of your children.
      Consider the murder you are going to do.
      By your knees we beg you,
      in every way we know,
      do not slaughter your own children.

      Where will your hands and heart
      find the strength, the courage
      to dare this dreadful action?
      How will you look at them,                                                                
      your children, and not weep                                                         
      for their murderous fate?
      When they kneel before you,
      and implore your mercy,
      you'll find it impossible
      to steel your heart, 
      then soak your hands
      in your own children's blood.

[Enter Medea from the house and, from the side, Jason with the Nurse]

      I've come, as you requested. You hate me,
      but I'm here, and I'm prepared to listen.
      Woman, what it is you now want from me?                                 

      Jason, I ask you to forgive me
      for what I said before. My anger                                                          
      you should be able to put up with,
      since we two have shared many acts of love.
      I've been debating with myself. I realize
      I've been in the wrong. I tell myself,
      "I'm a fool. Why am I in such a rage,
      resenting those who offer good advice?
      Why fight against the rulers of this land,
      or against my husband, whose actions serve                                
      my own best interests with this royal marriage,
      producing brothers for my children?
      Why can't I stop being angry? What's wrong with me,
      when gods are being so kind? Don't I have children?                         
      Don't I know we're going into exile,
      where friends are hard to find?" With thoughts like these,
      I recognized how foolish I had been,
      how senseless it was to be so annoyed.
      So now I agree with you. It strikes me
      you've been acting prudently, by forging                                     
      this marriage link on our behalf. I was mad.
      I should have worked with you in this design,
      helped you with your plans, stood there beside you
      in this marriage, rejoiced along with you
      for this union with your bride. But women are,
      well, I won't say bad—we are what we are.
      You shouldn't copy the bad things we do,                                          
      repaying foolishness with foolishness.
      So I give in. I admit that I was wrong.
      But now I see things in a better light.                                          

[Medea goes to the door of the house and calls inside]

      Children, come out here—leave the house.

[Enter the children with the Tutor]

      Come on out. Welcome your father here—
      talk to him with me. You and your mother
      will end the bad blood we've had in this family.
      We've patched things up, and no one's angry now.
      Take his right hand. Oh, it's harsh to think                                         
      of what the future hides.

[Medea hugs her children]

                                                            Oh my children,
      will you keep holding your dear arms out like this
      through all the many years you have to live?
      Oh dear, I'm just too tearful, too afraid!                                      
      My delicate eyes keep filling up with tears,
      now I've stopped this quarrel with your father.

      My eyes, too, begin to weep pale tears.
      May this bad luck proceed no further.

      Lady, I approve of what you're saying now.
      Not that I blame you for what went on before.
      For it's quite natural in the female sex
      to get angry when their husbands set up
      secret schemes to plan another secret marriage.                                 
      But your heart has changed now for the better.                           
      Although it took a while, you understand
      the wiser course of action. In doing so,
      you're acting like a woman of good sense.
      Now, as for you, my children, your father
      has not been neglectful. With the gods' help,
      I've made secure provision for you.
      At some future date, you'll be leaders here,
      in Corinth, alongside your new brothers.
      But first you must grow up. As for the rest,
      your father and the god who smiles on him                                 
      will take care of that. I pray I see you                                                 
      mature into fine young men, victorious
      over all my enemies.

[Medea starts to weep]

      why turn away? Why weep and fill your eyes
      with these pale tears? What I have said,
      does that not make you happy?

                                          It's nothing.
      I was thinking of the children.

                                                Cheer up.
      I will see that they are well looked after.

      I will cheer up. I trust what you have said.
      But it's a woman's nature to shed tears.                                      

      But why be so tearful with the boys?

      I gave birth to them. When you made that prayer                               
      about them growing up, I felt pity,
      wondering how things would turn out for them.
      But let's discuss the reasons for your visit.
      I've mentioned some. Now I'll let you know the rest.
      Since the rulers here are keen to banish me,
      I recognize the best thing I can do
      is try not to stand in their way or yours,
      by staying here. This royal house thinks me                                
      their enemy. So I've made up my mind
      to leave this country and go into exile.
      But you should beg Creon to spare our boys,
      not banish them, so they can grow up here,                                        
      under your direction.

                                                Well, I don't know
      if I can convince him. But I should try.

      You could tell your wife to ask her father
      not to send the children into exile.

      A good idea. I think I can persuade her.

      You will, if she's a woman like the rest.                                      
      And I'll give you some help. I'll send her gifts,
      by far the finest human gifts I know,
      a finely woven gown, a diadem
      of twisted gold. The boys will take them.
      One of my servants must fetch them here—                                      

[Medea gestures to a servant]

      You—bring me those presents right away.

[Servant goes into the house]

      She's got more than one reason to be happy,
      that wife of yours. She's blessed in countless ways.
      In you she's found a very worthy man
      to share her bed—and now she gets these gifts,                          
      which my grandfather Helios once gave
      to his descendants.

[The servant returns with the gifts. Medea takes them and hands them over to her children]

                                                      Come, children,
      take up these wedding gifts and carry them
      as offerings to the happy royal bride.
      What she's getting will be worthy of her.

      What are you doing, you foolish woman,
      disposing of these things of yours? Do you think
      the royal house lacks clothes or gold? Keep them.                              
      Don't give them away. If my wife values me,
      she'll set more store on what I want to do                                   
      than on rich possessions. I'm sure of that.

      Don't say that. Even the gods, they claim,
      are won by gifts. And among mortal men,
      gold works more wonders than a thousand words.
      Her fortune's on the rise. Gods favour her.
      She's young, with royal power to command.
      But to spare my children banishment,
      I'd trade more than gold. I'd give my life.
      Now, children, when you get inside the palace,
      you must beg this new wife of your father's,                                
1140  [970]
      my mistress, not to send you into exile.
      When you present these gifts, your must make sure
      she takes them from you herself, in her own hands.
      Now go and be quick about it. Good luck!
      Bring your mother back news of your success,
      the happy news she so desires to hear.

[Exit Jason and the children, with the Nurse and Tutor]

      I've no longer any hope
      that these children stay alive,
      as they stroll to their own slaughter.
      The bride will take her diadem,                                                   
      she'll take her golden ruin.
      With her own hand she'll fix
      across her lovely yellow hair                                                               
      the jewelry of death.

      The unearthly gleam, the charm
      will tempt her to put on the robe
      and ornament of twisted gold.
      Her marriage bed will lie among the dead.
      That's the trap she'll fall in.
      That's how she'll die.                                                                   
      She can't escape destruction.

      And you, unlucky man,                                                                        [990]
      married to the daughter of a king—
      how ignorant you are right now,
      bringing death to both your sons,
      to your bride an agonizing end.
      You most unfortunate man,
      how wrong you were about your destiny.

      Next, I mourn your sorrows,
      unhappy mother of these children,                                              
      intent on slaughtering your sons,
      because your lawless husband
      left you and your marriage bed                                                            
      and now lives with another wife.

[Enter the Tutor with the children]

      My lady, your children won't be exiled.
      The royal bride was happy to accept,
      with own hands, the gifts you sent her.
      Now the boys have made their peace with her.

[Medea starts to weep]

      What's wrong? Why do you stand there in distress?
      Things have worked out well. Why turn away again?                  
      Aren't you happy to hear my splendid news?

      Alas . . .

                An odd response to the news I bring.

      All I can say is I'm so sad . . . .

      Have I mistakenly said something bad?
      Am I wrong to think my news is good?                                               

      You've reported what you had to tell me.
      I'm not blaming you.

                                           Then why avert your eyes?
      Why are you crying?

                                             Old man, I have my reasons.
      The gods and I, with my worst intentions,
      have brought about this situation.                                               

      Be happy. Your children will one day
      bring you back home again.

                                            But before that,
      I shall bring others to their homes—alas,
      how miserable I feel.

      You're not the only mother whose children
      have been separated from her. We mortals
      must bear our bad times patiently.

                                                             I'll do so.
      But now go in the house. And carry on.
      Give the children their usual routine.                                                 

[Tutor exits into the house. The children remain with Medea]

      Oh children, my children, you still have                                       1200
      a city and a home, where you can live,
      once you've left me in wretched suffering.
      You can live on here without your mother.
      But I'll go to some other country,
      an exile, before I've had my joy in you,
      before I've seen you happy, or helped
      to decorate your marriage beds, your brides,
      your bridal chambers, or lifted high
      your wedding torches. How miserable
      my self-will has made me. I raised you—                                     
      and all for nothing. The work I did for you,
      the cruel hardships, pains of childbirth—                                           
      all for nothing. Once, in my foolishness,
      I had many hopes in you—it's true—
      that you'd look after me in my old age,
      that you'd prepare my corpse with your own hands,
      in the proper way, as all people wish.
      But now my tender dreams have been destroyed.
      For I'll live my life without you both,
      in sorrow. And those loving eyes of yours                                   
      will never see your mother any more.
      Your life is changing. Oh, my children,                                              
      why are you looking at me in that way?
      Why smile at me—that last smile of yours?
      Alas, what shall I do? You women here,
      my heart gives way when I see those eyes,
      my children's smiling eyes. I cannot do it.
      Good bye to those previous plans of mine.
      I'll take my children from this country.
      Why harm them as a way to hurt their father                               
      and have to suffer twice his pain myself?
      No, I won't do that. And so farewell
      to what I planned before. But what's going on?
      What's wrong with me? Do I really want
      my enemies escaping punishment,                                                      
      while I become someone they ridicule?
      I will go through with this. What a coward
      I am even to let my heart admit
      such sentimental reasons. Children,
      you must go into the house.                                                  

[The children move toward the house but remain at the door, looking at Medea]

                                             Anyone forbidden                                  1240
      to attend my sacrifice, let such a man
      concern himself about these children.
      My hand will never lack the strength for this.
      And yet . . . My heart, don't do this murder.
      You're made of stone, but leave the boys alone.
      Spare my children. If they remain alive,
      with me in Athens, they'll make you happy.
      No! By those avengers in lower Hell,
      I'll never deliver up my children,                                                         
      hand them over to their enemies,                                                
      to be humiliated. They must die—
      that's unavoidable, no matter what.
      Since that must happen, then their mother,
      the one who gave them life, will kill them.
      At all events it's settled. There's no way out.
      On her head the royal bride already wears
      the poisoned crown. That dress is killing her.
      But I'm treading an agonizing path,
      and send my children on one even worse.
      What I want to do now is say farewell.                                        

[Medea moves to the children near the door, kneels down and hugs them]

      Give me your right hands, children. Come on.                                    [1070]
      Let your mother kiss them. Oh, these hands—
      how I love them—and how I love these mouths,
      faces—the bearing of such noble boys.
      I wish you happiness—but somewhere else.
      Where you live now your father takes away.
      Oh this soft embrace! Their skin's so tender.
      My boys' breathing smells so sweet to me.
      But you must go inside. Go. I can't stand
      to look at you any more like this.                                                
      The evil done to me has won the day.
      I understand too well the dreadful act
      I'm going to commit, but my judgment
      can't check my anger, and that incites
      the greatest evils human beings do.                                                    

[Medea shepherds the children into the house, leaving the Chorus alone on stage]

      Often, before this present time,
      I've gone into more complex arguments,
      I've struggled with more serious issues,
      than my female sex should try to probe.
      But we, too, have an artistic Muse.                                             
      She lives with us to teach us wisdom.
      But not with all of us—the group of women
      able to profit from our Muse is small—
      in a crowd of women you might find one.
      And I claim that with human beings                                                   
      those with no experience of children,
      those who have never given birth,
      such people have far more happiness
      than those who have been parents.
      With those who have no children,                                               
      because they never come to see
      whether their children grow up
      to be a blessing or a curse to men,
      their failure to have offspring
      keeps many troubles from them.
      But those who in their own homes
      have a sweet race of children growing,
      I see them worn down with cares                                                       
      their whole life long. First,
      how they can raise their children well.                                        
      Next, how they can leave their sons
      a means of livelihood. And then,
      it's by no means clear that all the work
      produces good or useless children.
      There's one final problem,
      the worst for any mortal human—
      I'll tell you: suppose those parents
      have found a sufficient way of life,
      and seen their children grow
      into strong, young, virtuous men,                                                
      if Fate so wills it, Death comes,                                                          
      carries off the children's bodies,
      away to Hades. What profit, then,
      is there for us and our love of sons,
      if the gods inflict on mortal men,
      in addition to their other troubles,
      this most painful extra grief.

[Enter Medea from the house]

      My friends, I've long been waiting in suspense
      to see what's happening in the royal house.
      Now I see one of Jason's servants coming.                                  
      His hard rapid breathing indicates to me
      he's bringing news of some fresh disaster.                                           

[Enter the Messenger, coming from the royal palace]

      Medea, you must escape—leave this place.
      You've done an awful deed, broken every law.
      Take ship and go by sea—or go overland
      by chariot. But you must go from here.

      What's happened that I have to run away?

      The king's daughter has just been destroyed,
      her father, too—Creon. You poisoned them.

      What really splendid news you bring.                                          
      From now on, I'll consider you a friend,
      one of my benefactors.

                                                          What's that?
      Are you in your right mind, lady, or insane?
      To commit this crime against the royal house,                                   
      and then be happy when you hear the news,
      without being afraid?

      I have some remarks to offer in reply.
      But, my friend, don't be in such a hurry.
      Tell me of their deaths. If you report
      they died in pain, you'll double my rejoicing.                              

      When your two children came with their father
      and went in the bride's home, we servants,
      who had shared in your misfortune, were glad,
      for a rumour spread at once from ear to ear
      that you and your husband's previous quarrel                                     
      was now over. Someone kissed the boys' hands,
      someone else their golden hair. In my joy,
      I went with the children right inside,
      into the women's quarters. Our mistress,
      whom we now look up to instead of you,                                   
      before she caught sight of your two children,
      wanted to fix her eyes on Jason only.
      But then she veiled her eyes and turned away
      her white cheek, disgusted that they'd come.
      Your husband tried to change the young bride's mood,                      
      to soften her anger, with these words,
      "Don't be so hard-hearted with your family.
      Check your anger, and turn your face this way,
      look at us again, and count as friends of yours
      those your husband thinks are friends of his.                              
      Now, receive these gifts, and then, for my sake,
      beg your father not to exile these two boys."
      Once she saw the gifts, she did not hold out,
      but agreed in everything with Jason.
      And before your children and their father
      had gone any distance from the palace,
      she took the richly embroidered gown
      and put it on, then arranged the golden crown,                                   
      fixing it in her hair at a bright mirror,
      smiling at her body's lifeless image there.                                    
      Then she stood up from her seat and strolled
      across the room, moving delicately
      on her pale feet, delighted with the gifts,
      with a great many glances to inspect
      the straightness of the dress against her legs.
      But then it happened—a horrific sight.
      She changed colour, staggered back and sideways,
      trembling, then fell into her chair again,
      almost collapsing on the floor. An old woman,                                   
      one of her servants, thinking it was a fit                                      
      inspired by Pan or by some other god,
      shouted in festive joy, until she saw
      the white spit foaming in her mouth, her eyes
      bulging from their sockets, and her pale skin
      quite drained of blood. The servant screamed again—
      this time, to make up for her former shout,
      she cried out in distress. Another slave
      ran off at once towards her father's palace,
      and another to the girl's new husband
      to tell him the grim fate his bride had met.                                  
      The whole house rang with people's footsteps,                                   
      as they hurried back and forth. By the time
      it would take a fast runner to complete
      two hundred yards and reach the finish line,
      her eyes opened—the poor girl woke up,
      breaking her silent fit with a dreadful scream.
      She was suffering a double agony—
      around her head the golden diadem
      shot out amazing molten streams of fire
      burning everything, and the fine woven robe,                             
      your children's gift, consumed the poor girl's flesh.
      She jumped up from the chair and ran away,                                      
      all of her on fire, tossing her head, her hair,
      this way and that, trying to shake off
      her golden crown—but it was fixed in place,
      and when she shook her hair, the fire blazed
      twice as high. Then she fell down on the ground,
      overcome by the disaster. No one
      could recognize her, except her father.
      Her eyes had lost their clear expression,                                     
      her face had changed. And there was blood
      on top her head, dripping down, mixed with fire.
      The flesh was peeling from her bones, chewed off
      by the poison's secret jaws, just like resin                                           
      oozing from a pine tree. An appalling sight!
      Everyone was too afraid to touch the corpse—
      what we'd seen had warned us. But her father,
      poor wretch, didn't know what she's been through.
      He came unexpectedly into the house
      and stumbled on the corpse. He cried aloud,                              
      embraced his daughter, and kissed her, saying,
      "My poor child, what god has been so cruel
      to destroy you in this way? Who's taken you
      away from me, an old man near my death?
      Oh my child, I wish I could die with you."                                         
      He ended his lamenting cries. But then,
      when he tried to raise his old body up,
      he was entangled in that woven dress,
      like ivy wrapped around a laurel branch.
      He struggled dreadfully, trying to get up                                     
      onto his knees, but she held him down.
      If he used force, he tore his ancient flesh
      clear off his bones. The poor man at last gave up.
      His breathing stopped, for he couldn't stand the pain
      a moment longer. So the two of them lie dead—
      the daughter, her old father, side by side.                                           
      It's horrible, something to make one weep.
      Concerning you there's nothing I will say.
      For you'll know well enough the punishment
      that's coming to you. As for human life,                                      
      it seems to me, and not for the first time,
      nothing but shadows. And I might say,
      without feeling any fear, those mortals
      who seem wise, who prepare their words with care,
      are guilty of the greatest foolishness.
      Among human beings no one is happy.
      Wealth may flow in to produce a man
      more lucky than another, but no man,                                                
      is ever happy, no one.

[Exit Messenger]

                                      This is the day, it seems,                              
      the god tightens trouble around Jason,
      and justly so. Oh poor Creon's daughter,
      how we pity your misfortune. You're gone,
      down in Hades' home—the price you pay
      for marrying Jason.

      I've made up my mind, my friends.
      I'll do it—kill my children now, without delay,
      and flee this land. I must not hesitate.
      That will hand them over to someone else,
      to be slaughtered by a hand less loving.                                      
      No matter what, the children have to die.
      Since that's the case, then I, who gave them life,                               
      will kill them. Arm yourself for this, my heart.
      Why do I put off doing this dreadful act,
      since it must be done? Come, pick up the sword,
      wretched hand of mine. Pick up the sword,
      move to where your life of misery begins.
      Don't play the coward. Don't remember now
      how much you love them, how you gave them life.
      For this short day forget they are your children—                       
      and mourn them later. Although you kill them,
      still you loved them. As a woman, I'm so sad.                                    

[Exit Medea into the house]

      Hail to Earth,
      Hail to the Sun,
      whose rays illuminate all things.
      Turn your eyes, look down,
      see this destroying woman,
      before she sets her bloody hands,
      her instruments of murder,
      onto her own children,                                                                
      those offshoots of your golden race.
      It's a fearful thing for men
      to spill the blood of gods.
      O light which comes from Zeus,
      stop her, take from the house
      this blood-thirsty savage Fury
      gripped by the spirit of revenge.                                                          

      The pain you felt in giving birth
      was useless, wasted.
      Those children you so love,                                                         
      you bore them all in vain.
      You who left behind you
      the inhospitable passage
      where the Symplegades dance,
      those deadly, dark-blue rocks,
      you unhappy woman,
      why does your anger
      fall so heavily upon your heart,
      and one harsh murder
      follow so quickly on another?                                                      
      The polluting moral stain
      that taints all mortal men
      who shed their family blood
      upon the earth—that's hard to bear.
      For the gods send down
      onto the houses of the ones who kill
      sorrows to match their crimes.                                                            

CHILD [from inside the house]
      Help me . . . help . . .

                                         Did you hear that?
      Did you hear the children cry?
      That wretched, evil woman!                                                        

CHILD [from within]
      What do I do? How can I escape
      my mother's hands?

                                    I don't know, dear brother.
      It's over for us . . .

CHORUS [shouting in response]
                                  Should I go in the house?
      I'm sure I must prevent this murder.

      Yes—for the love of gods, stop this! And hurry!

      The sword has almost got us—like a snare!

      You hard and wretched woman,
      just like stone or iron—
      to kill your children,                                                                            
      ones you bore yourself,                                                                
      sealing their fate with your own hands.
      Of all women that ever lived before
      I know of one, of only one,
      who laid hands on her dear children—
      and that was Ino,
      driven to madness by the gods,
      when Hera, Zeus' wife,
      sent her wandering in a fit
      away from home,
      that sad lady leapt into the sea,                                                   
      because she'd killed her sons
      a most unholy murder.
      She walked into the surf
      at the sea's edge, perishing
      so she could join in death
      her own two children.
      But what horror still remains
      after what's happened here?
      A woman's marriage bed—                                                                 
      so full of pain—how many evils,                                                 
      has it brought on humankind?

[Enter Jason with attendants]

      You women standing there beside the house,
      where's Medea, who's done these awful things?
      Is she still inside? Or has she left here?
      She'll have to hide herself under the earth,
      or else fly up to heaven's overarching vault,
      if she's going to avoid her punishment
      from the royal house. Did she really think
      she could kill the rulers of this country
      and get away unharmed? But at this point                                   
1550  [1300]
      she's no concern of mine. I'm worried
      for my children. Those whom she has wronged
      will take care of her. I've come for the boys,
      to save their lives, in case the next of kin
      try to harm me and mine, retribution
      for their mother's profane murders.

      Unhappy man, you don't know the full extent
      of your misfortune, or you would not say this.

      What is it? Does she plan to kill me, too?

      Your boys are dead, killed by their mother's hand.                      

      No. What are you saying? Woman,                                                     
      you have destroyed me.

                                                   The boys are dead.
      You must fix your mind on that. They're gone.

      Where did she do this? Inside or outside?

      Open the doors and you will see them,
      your slaughtered children.

JASON [shouting into the house, as he shakes the doors]
                                          You slaves in there,
      remove the bar from this door at once,
      withdraw the bolts, so I may see two things—
      my dead sons and their murderer, that woman
      on whom I shall exact revenge.                                                   

[Jason shakes the doors of the house, which remain closed. Medea appears in a winged chariot, rising above the house. The bodies of the two children are visible in the chariot]

      Why are you rattling the doors like that,
      trying to unbar them so you can find
      their bodies and me, the one who killed them?
      Stop trying. If you want something from me,
      then say so, if you want to. But you'll never                                       
      have me in your grasp, not in this chariot,
      a gift to me from my grandfather Helios,
      to protect me from all hostile hands.

      You accursed woman, most hateful
      to the gods and me and all mankind.
      You dared to take the sword to your own boys,                          
      you—the one who bore them—and to leave me
      destroyed and childless. Having done this,
      after committing this atrocious crime,
      can you still look upon the earth and sun?
      May you be destroyed! Now I understand—
      I must have lost my mind to bring you here,
      from that savage country, to a Greek home.                                      
      You were truly evil then—you betrayed
      your father and the land that raised you.
      But the avenging fury meant for you                                           
      the gods have sent to me. You slaughtered
      your brother in your home, then came aboard
      our fine ship, the Argo. That's how you began.
      When you married me and bore my children,
      in your lust for sex and our marriage bed,
      you killed them. No woman from Greece would dare
      to do this, but I chose you as my wife                                                
      above them all, and that has proved to be
      a hateful marriage—it has destroyed me.
      You're not a woman. You're a she-lion.                                      
      Your nature is more bestial than Scylla,
      the Tuscan monster. But my insults,
      multiplied a thousand fold, don't hurt you.
      Your heart's too hard for that. So be off,
      you shameful murderer of your children.
      Let me lament my fate. I'll get no delight
      from my new bride, nor will I ever speak
      to my own living children, the two boys
      I bred and raised. They're lost to me.                                                 

      I would reply to your words at length,                                         
      if father Zeus did not already know
      what I did for you and what you did to me.
      You weren't going to shame my marriage bed
      and have a pleasant life ridiculing me.
      Nor was that royal bride or Creon,
      who gave her to you, going to banish me,
      throw me from here with impunity.
      So if you want, call me a lioness
      or Scylla, who lives on Tuscan shores.
      For I've made contact with your heart at last.                             
1620   [1360]

      You have your own share of pain and sorrow.

      That's true. But there's relief in knowing
      you cannot laugh at me.

                                              O my children,
      you had such an evil mother!

                                              O my children,
      victims of your father's evil actions!

      At least it was not my hand that killed them.

      No. It was an insult—your new marriage.

      Was it right to murder them for that?

      Do you think that insult to a woman
      is something insignificant?

                                                  Yes, I do,                                         
      to a woman with good sense. But to you
      it's completely evil.

                                Well, your sons are gone.
      That should cause you pain.                                                               

                                      I think their spirits live
      to take out their revenge on you.

      The gods are aware who began this fight.

      Yes, they well know your detested heart.

      Keep up your hate. How I loathe your voice.

      And I hate yours. It won't be difficult
      for the two of us to part.

                                               Tell me how.
      What shall I do? For that's what I want, too.                               

      Let me bury these dead boys and mourn them.

      Never. My own hands will bury them.
      I'll take them to Hera's sacred lands
      in Acraia, so no enemy of mine
      will commit sacrilege against them
      by tearing up their graves. And in this place,                                      
      this land of Sisyphus, I'll initiate
      a solemn celebration, with mystic rites,
      future atonement for this wicked murder.
      I'll now go to the land of Erechtheus,                                          
      to live with Aegeus, son of Pandion.
      As for you, you'll have a miserable death,
      as is fitting for a coward. Now you've seen
      the bitter ending of your marriage to me,
      your head will be smashed in, when you're hit
      by a moldy relic of your ship the Argo.

      May the avenging Fury of our children
      destroy you—may you find blood justice.                                           

      What god or spirit listens to you,
      a man who doesn't keep his promises,                                         
      a man who deceives and lies to strangers?

      You polluted wretch! Child killer!

                                              Go home.
      Bury that wife of yours.

                                      I'll go.
      I've lost both my sons.

                                      Your grief's not yet begun.
      Wait until you're old.

                           Oh such loving children!

      Their mother loved them. You did not.

      And yet you killed them?

                                              Yes, to injure you.

      Alas, how I long to see my dear boys' faces,
      to hold them in my arms.                                                                    

                                                  So now, at this point,
      you'll talk to them, you'll give them an embrace.                        
      Before this, you shoved them from you.

                                                            By the gods,
      I beg you, let me feel their tender skin.

      No. Your words are wasted.

                                                        O Zeus,
      do you hear how I'm being driven off,
      what I must endure from this child killer,
      this she lion, this abomination?
      But I'll use the strength I have for grieving
      and praying to the gods to bear witness                                              [
      how you have killed my children and refuse
      to let me hold their bodies or bury them.                                    
      How I wish I'd never been a father
      and had to see you kill my children.

[Medea's chariot takes her and the children up and away from the scene. Exit Jason]

      Zeus on Olympus,
      dispenses many things.     
      Gods often contradict
      our fondest expectations.
      What we anticipate
      does not come to pass.
      What we don't expect
      some god finds a way                                                                  
      to make it happen.
      So with this story.

[Exit Chorus]


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