Meanwhile Medea, seized with fierce desire, By reason strives to quench the raging fire; But strives in vain;⁠—“Some god,” she said, “withstands, And Reason’s baffled counsel countermands. What unseen power does this disorder move? ’Tis love⁠—at least ’tis like what men call love. Else wherefore should the king’s commands appear To me too hard?⁠—But so indeed they are. Why should I for a stranger fear, lest he Should perish, whom I did but lately see? His death or safety, what are they to me? Wretch! from thy virgin breast this flame expel, And soon⁠—O! could I, all would then be well. But love, resistless love, my soul invades: Discretion this, affection that, persuades. I see the right, and I approve it too, Condemn the wrong, and yet⁠—the wrong pursue. Why, royal maid, shouldst thou desire to wed A wanderer, and court a foreign bed? Thy native land, though barb’rous, can present A bridegroom worth a royal bride’s consent; And whether this adventurer lives or dies, In Fate and Fortune’s fickle pleasure lies.