Women, my mind is clear. I go to slay My children with all speed, and then, away From hence; not wait yet longer till they stand Beneath another and an angrier hand To die. Yea, howsoe'er I shield them, die They must. And, seeing that they must, 'tis I Shall slay them, I their mother, touched of none Beside. Oh, up and get thine armour on, My heart! Why longer tarry we to win Our crown of dire inevitable sin? Take up thy sword, O poor right hand of mine, Thy sword: then onward to the thin-drawn line Where life turns agony. Let there be naught Of softness now: and keep thee from that thought, 'Born of thy flesh,' 'thine own beloved.' Now, For one brief day, forget thy children: thou Shalt weep hereafter. Though thou slay them, yet Sweet were they. . . . I am sore unfortunate. [She goes into the house.

Medea Monologue

Rehearse Medea's monologue