Epistulae

lo the watchful serpent, terrible by his sounding scales, hisses, and sweeps the ground with his winding breast. Where was then your rich dowry? where then your royal spouse, and the Isthmus which divides the circling sea? Even I, Medea, whom you now despise as a barbarian, whom you deem indigent and criminal, forsaken Medea, locked up his fiery orbs in enchanted sleep, and left you the golden fleece a secure and easy prize.

I betrayed my father, abandoned my kingdom and country, and fancied that, with you, even exile was some gratification. My virginity became the prey of a foreign ravisher: I left the best of sisters, and a darling mother. Alas! why did I not leave my brother also? Here conscious guilt arrests my hand, and commands me to draw a veil over my crime. My hand refuses to write what it dared to commit. In this manner ought I to have been torn to pieces; but with you, who also deserved the same fate. Nor did I fear, (for

what after this could make me afraid?) though a weak woman, and now a guilty wretch, to trust myself to the sea. Where was then the majesty of heaven? where were the Gods by whom we had falsely sworn? why did we not undergo the just punishment, you of your falsehood, and I of my credulity? Oh! that the meeting Symplegades had crushed us into one, and my bones had been made to incorporate with yours; or that devouring Scylla had made us the prey of hungry dogs (for thus ought Scylla to use ungrateful men); or that the gulf

which alternately vomits up and drinks in the waves, had overwhelmed us in its circling current! But fate had otherwise decreed; you returned safe and victorious to the Grecian states, and made an offer of the rich fleece to the Gods of your country. Why should I mention the daughters of Pelias, bloody through piety, and the slaughter of a father by the hands of virgins? However others may blame, yet you are bound to commend me, for whose sake I have so often made myself guilty. You had the barbarity, (Oh! words are wanting to equal my grief,) you had the barbarity to forbid me the house of your father Æson. Compelled, I left the house, accompanied only by my two sons, and by that affection for you which never ceases to haunt me. Soon the new nuptial songs reached my ears, and the torches shone with the spreading flame: the flute also struck off the social lines, to me more mournful than the funeral trumpet. I

was frighted to distraction, nor could yet fancy you so completely base: but a coldness spread itself over all my breast. The rabble shouted, and invoked Hymen; they redoubled their cries, and, as they approached, the word seemed more dreadful. The servants wept in corners, and each strove to hide his tears: for who among them would be the messenger of so great a calamity? I was also better pleased to be ignorant of whatever passed: but still my mind, by some secret foresight, foreboded my misfortune. When my younger boy, by my command, and moved by curiosity, stood at the entrance of the double gate, Look, said he, mother, my father Jason heads the procession, and, arrayed in vestments of gold, urges the harnessed horses. I then tore my garments, and beat my breast; nor was my face safe from the impression of my nails. My rage urged me to rush into the midst of the crowd, and tear the garlands from the well-dressed locks. Scarcely could I restrain myself from appearing with my hair torn, taking hold of him, and claiming him as mine. Injured father, forsaken Colchians, now rejoice, and be satisfied with the sacrifice made to the

manes of my murdered brother. I am deserted by my husband, after abandoning my kingdom, country, and home. He was all to me!

Have I then been able to tame the serpents and raging bulls, and yet cannot vanquish a single man? Could I by magic arts repress the fire-breathing bulls, and not conquer the flames of love that rage in my own breast? Have my enchantments, herbs, and skill, abandoned me? Can Diana and the rites of powerful Hecate yield no relief? Day is odious to me; the nights are full of cruel bitterness; no soft slumbers soothe my anxious breast. I, who can do nothing to myself, could yet lull to rest the dragon; my art is useful to every one but myself. A rival embraces those limbs which I preserved; she now enjoys the fruit of my toil. Perhaps too, while you endeavour to recommend yourself to your silly spouse, and say what may be agreeable to her partial ears, you unjustly ridicule my face and manners. She stupidly laughs, and rejoices at my defects. Laugh on,