She cried aloud, “Medea, wits are futile Against this heat. Some god’s bewitched my senses, Chained my will. Is this called love? Why do The trials my father offers these young men Seem difficult and cruel? His price is high: Why do I fear the death of one I’ve seen But for a moment and for the first time only? What lies behind this fear? Then come, Medea, Tear out the flames that scorch your innocent heart, You poor, unlucky child! Brace up, my darling, Be yourself again: O if I could, I would, But now against my will an unknown power Has made me weak: heat sways me one way, And my mind
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