MEDEA.
105
Children's Guardian.
Why dost thou stand confounded mid good hap? 1005
Now wherefore turnest thou thy face away,
And dost not hear with gladness this my speech?
Medea.
Woe's me!
Children's Guardian.
This cry is to the tidings not attuned.
Medea.
Woe yet again!
Children's Guardian.
Can I have brought ill hap
Unwitting—erred in deeming these glad tidings? 1010
Medea.
As they are, are thy tidings: thee I blame not.
Children's Guardian.
Why down-drooped is thine eye? Why flow thy tears?
Medea.
Needs must they, ancient; for these things the Gods
And I withal—O fool!—have ill contrived.
Children's Guardian.
Fear not: thy children yet shall bring thee home. 1015
Medea.
Others ere then shall wretched I send home.
