Medea.
I will flee forth:—not this the boon I crave.
Kreon.
Why restive then?—why rid not Corinth of thee?
Medea.
Suffer me yet to tarry this one day, 340
And somewhat for our exile to take thought,
And find my babes a refuge, since their sire
Cares nought to make provision for his sons.
Compassionate these: a father too art thou
Of children: meet it is thou show these grace. 345
Not for myself I fret, if I be banished:
For them in their calamity I mourn.
Kreon.
My spirit least of all is tyrannous.
Many a plan have my relentings marred:
And, woman, now I know I err herein, 350
Yet shalt thou win this boon. But I forewarn thee,
If thee the approaching Sun-god's torch behold
Within this country's confines with thy sons,
Thou diest:—the word is said that shall not lie.
Now, if remain thou must, remain one day— 355
Too short for thee to do the deeds I dread. [Exit.
Chorus.
O hapless thou!
Woe's me for thy misery, woe for the trouble and anguish that meet thee!
Whitherward wilt thou turn thee?—what welcoming hand mid the strangers shall greet thee?
