Why should I cause A twofold portion of distress to fall On my own head, that I may grieve the sire By punishing his sons? This shall not be: Such counsels I dismiss. To those past schemes I bid adieu, and with me from this land My children will convey. Sparkling with joy now I their looks have seen, My friends, I can no more.

Ah wretched, wretched me! What shall I do? My resolution fails. Why do ye gaze on me with such a look Of tenderness, or wherefore smile? for these Are your last smiles. But as for you, my sons, with those dear eyes Fated no more your mother to behold, Hence are ye hastening to a world unknown. On you, in my afflictions, many hopes I founded erst: that ye with pious care Would foster my old age, and on the bier Extend me after death-much envied lot Of mortals but these pleasing anxious thoughts Are vanished now for, losing you, a life Of bitterness and anguish shall I lead.

How wretched am I through my own perverseness! You, O my sons, I then in vain have nurtured, In vain have toiled, and, wasted with fatigue, Suffered the pregnant matron's grievous throes. But I to other realms an exile go, Ere any help from you I could derive, Or see you blest the hymeneal pomp, The bride, the genial couch, for you adorn, And in these hands the kindled torch sustain. O my sons! My sons! ye have a city and a house Where, leaving hapless me behind, without A mother ye for ever shall reside.

Euripides medea translation