Chorus
Vainly wasted were the throes thy children cost thee; vainly hast thou born, it seems, sweet babes, O thou who hast left behind thee that passage through the blue Symplegades, that strangers justly hate.
Ah! hapless one, why doth fierce anger thy soul assail? Why
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in its place is fell murder growing up? For grievous unto mortal men are pollutions that come of kindred blood poured on the earth,
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woes to suit each crime hurled from heaven on the murderer’s house.
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Sons
within
Ah!
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Medea. Euripides. Edward P. Coleridge (Translator). London. 1906.
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