And thou, poor wretch, who to thy sorrow art wedding a king's daughter,
little thinkest of the doom thou art bringing on thy children's life,
or of the cruel death that waits thy bride. Woe is thee! how art thou
fallen from thy high estate!
(antistrophe 2)
Next do I bewail thy sorrows, O mother hapless in thy children, thou
who wilt slay thy babes because thou hast a rival, the babes thy husband
hath deserted impiously to join him to another bride. (The Attendant
enters with the children.)
Attendant: Thy children, lady, are from exile freed, and gladly did
the royal bride accept thy gifts in her own hands, and so thy children
made their peace with her.
Medea: Ah!
Attendant: Why art so disquieted in thy prosperous hour? Why turnest
thou thy cheek away, and hast no welcome for my glad news?
Studies
