Chorus.
Woman, wilt have the heart to slay thy sons?
Medea.
Yea: so mine husband's heart shall most be wrung.
Chorus.
But thou of wives most wretched shouldst become.
Medea.
So be it: wasted are all hindering words.
But ho! [to the Nurse] go thou and Jason bring to me— 820
Thou whom I use for every deed of trust.
And look thou tell none aught of mine intent,
If thine is loyal service, thou a woman.
Chorus.
(Str. 1)
O happy the race in the ages olden
Of Erechtheus, the seed of the blest Gods' line,
In a land unravaged, peace-enfolden,
Aye quaffing of Wisdom's glorious wine,
Ever through air clear-shining brightly 830
As on wings uplifted pacing lightly,
Where they tell how Harmonia of tresses golden
Bare the Pierid Muses, the stainless Nine.
(Ant. 1)
And the streams of Cephisus the lovely-flowing
They tell how the Lady of Cyprus drew,
And in Zephyr-wafts of the winds sweet-blowing
Breathed far over the land their dew.
