 Part 1 of Oedipus. Performed by Andy Minter, the Priest of Zeus, read by Hanadowl, Creeon, performed by Father Xyle, chorus of Theban Elders, read by Musical Heart One, Tyreseus, performed by Breonna the Bard, Jacasta, performed by Linney, Messenger, performed by Carolyn Francis, heard of Lyus, second Messenger, performed by Philip Herr MacDonald, and narrated by Elizabeth Klett, scene, Thebes, before the Palace of Oedipus. Suppliants of all ages are seated round the altar at the palace doors, at their head a priest of Zeus, to them enter Oedipus. My children, latest born to Cadmus Old, why sit ye here as suppliants, in your hands branches of olive, filleted with wool? What means this reek of incense everywhere, and everywhere laments and litanies? Children, it were not meek that I should learn from others, and am hither come myself. I, Oedipus, your world-renowned king! O aged sire, whose venerable locks proclaim the spokesman of this company, explain your mood and purport. Is it dread of ill that moves you, or a boony crave? My zeal in your behalf ye cannot doubt. Ruthless indeed were I, and obdurate, if such petitioners as you, I spurned. Ye Oedipus, my sovereign lord and king, Thou seest how both extremes of age perceive thy palace altars, Fledschlings hardly winged, and grey beards bowed with ears. Priests, as am I of Zeus, and these the flower of our youth. Meanwhile the common folk with wreathe bows crowd our two marketplaces, or before both shrines of palace congregate, Or where Ismenes gives his oracles by fire. For, as thou seest thyself, our ship of state, So buffeted can no more lift her head, Founded beneath a weltering surge of blood, A blight is on a harvest in the ear, A blight upon the grazing flocks and herds, A blight on wives in Traval, And with all armed with his blazing torch, The god of plague hath swooped upon our city, Emptying the house of Cadmus, and the murky realm of Pluto, Is full fed with groans and tears. Therefore, O king, here at thy hearth we sit, I and these children, Not as deeming thee a new divinity, But the first of men, First in the common accidents of life, And first in visitations to the gods. Art thou not he who come into the town of Cadmus, Freed us from the tax we paid to the fell songstress? Nor hath thou received prompting from us, Or been by other schools? No, by a god inspired, So all men deem and testify, This thou renew our life. And now, O Oedipus, our peerless king, All we thy votaries beseech thee, Find some succour, whether by a voice From heaven whispered, Or happily known by human wit. Tried counsellors me thinks, Our aptest found, furnished, For the future pregnant read. A praise, O chief of men, a praise our state, Look to thy laurels, for thy zeal of yore, Our country's saviour thou art justly hailed. O never may we thus record thy reign, He raised us up, only to cast us down. Uplift us, build our city on a rock, Thy happy star ascendant brought us luck. O let it not decline! If thou wast rule this land as now thy reigns'd, Better sure to rule a people than a desert realm. Nor battlements, nor galleys ought to veil. If men, to man, and gods to guard them tale. Ah, my poor children, known, ah, known too well, The quest that brings you hither, and your need. Ye sick and all, well, what I? Yet my pain, how great so ever yours, outtops it all. Your sorrow touches each man severally, Him and on other. But I grieve at once, both for the general, and myself, and you. Therefore ye rouse no sluggard from daydreams. Many my children are the tears I've wept, And threaded many a maze of weary thought. Thus pondering one clue of hope I caught, and tracked it up. I have sent Menaceus's son, Creon, my consort's brother, To inquire of Pythian Phoebus at his Delphic shrine, How I might save the state by act or word. And now I reckon up the tale of days, Since he set forth and marvel how he fares. It is strange this endless tarrying, passing strange. But when he comes, then were I base indeed, If I perform not all the God declares. By words are well timed, Even as thou speakest, that shouting tells me Creon is at hand. O King Apollo, may his joyous looks Be presage of the joyous news he brings. As I surmise, it is welcome, Else his head has scarce been crowned with berry-laden bays. We shall soon know, he's now in earshot range. Enter Creon. My royal cousin say, Menaceus's child, What message hast thou brought us from the God? Good news! For in intolerable ills, finding right issue, Tend to not put good. How runs the oracle? Thus far thy words give me no ground for confidence or fear. If thou wouldst hear my message publicly, I'll tell thee straight, or with thee pass within. Speak before all, the burden that I bear Is more for these my subjects than myself. Let me report, then, all the God declared. King Phoebus bids us straightly extirpate A fell pollution that infests the land, And no more harbour and inbetter it soar. What expiation means he? What's amiss? Banishment, or the shedding blood for blood. This stain of blood makes shipwreck of our state. Whom can he mean? The miscreant, thus denounced? Before thou didst assume the helm of state, The sovereign of this land was Laus. I heard as much, but never saw the man. He fell. And now the God's command is plain. Punish his takers off, where they may be. Where are they? Where in the wide world to find The far faint traces of a bygone crime? In this land, said the God, Who seek shall find? Who sits with folded hands or sleeps is blind? Was he within his palace or a field, Or travelling when Laus met his fate? Abroad, he started, so he told us, Bound for Delphi, but he never thence returned. Came there no news, no fellow traveller, To give some clue that might be followed up? But one escape, who, flying for dear life, Could tell of all he saw but one thing sure. And what was that? One clue might lead us far, With but a spark of hope to guide our quest. Robbers, he told us, not one bandit, But a troupe of knaves attacked and murdered him. Did any bandit dare so bold a stroke? Unless indeed he were suborn from Thebes. So it was surmised. But none was found to avenge his murder Mid the trouble that ensued. What trouble can have hindered a full quest When royalty had fallen thus miserably? The riddling Sphinx compelled us to let slide The dim past and attend to instant needs. Well, I will start afresh, And once again make dark things clear, Right worthy the concern of Thebes, Worthy thine too for the dead. I also, as his meat, will lend my aid To avenge the wrong to Thebes and to the God. Not for some far-off kinsmen, But myself shall I expel this poison in the blood. For whoso slew that king Might have a mind to strike me too With his assassin hand. Therefore, in writing him, I serve myself. Up, children, haste ye, Quit these altar-stairs. Take hence your suppliant ones. Go, summon hither the Theban commons. With God's good help, success is sure. It is ruin, if we fail. Exiant, Oedipus and Creon. Come, children, let us hence. These gracious words forstall The very purpose of our suit. And may the God who sent this oracle Save us with all and rid us of this pest. Exiant priest and suppliance. Sweet voice, daughter of Zeus, From thy gold-paved pithing shrine, Lofted to Thebes' divine, What dost thou bring me? My soul is wracked and shivers with fear. Healer of Delos here, Hast thou some pain unknown before, Or with the circling years Renewest penance and mure. Offspring of golden hope, Thou voice immortal, O tell me. First on a theme I call. O Zeus-born goddess, defend. Goddess and sister, befriend, Artemis, lady of Thebes, High-throamed in the midst of our mart. Lord of the death-winged cart, O threefold aid I crave, From death and ruin our city to save. If in the days of old, when we nigh and perished, Ye drave from our land the fiery plague, Be near us now and defend us. O me, what countless woes are mine, All our host is in decline. Weaponless my spirit lies. Earth, her gracious fruits denies. Women wail like barren throes. Life on life downstrikin' goes. Swifter than the windbird's flight, Swifter than the fire god's might, To the westering shores of night. Wasted thus by death on death, All our city perisheth. Corpses spread infection round. None to tend or mourn is found. Wailing on the altar stair, Wives and grandams rend the air. Long-drawn moans and piercing cries, Blunt with prayers and litanies. Golden child of Zeus, O hear, let by an angel face appear. And grant that Aries, Whose hot breath I feel, Though without targe or steel he stalks, Whose voice is as the battle shout, May turn in sudden rout, To the unharbored threesome watersbed, Or amphitraties' bed. For what night, Aries undone, Smit by the morrow's son perisheth? Father Zeus, Whose hand doth wield the lightning brand, Slay him beneath thy levine bold. We pray, slay him, O slay! O that of thine arrows too, Machine King, From that taut bow's gold string Might fly abroad, The champions of our rights. Ye, and the flashing lights of Artemis, Wherewith the huntress sweeps across the Lycian steeps. Thee too, I call, with golden-snoted hair, Whose name our land doth bear. Bacchus, to whom thy menines evo shout, Come, with thy bright torch, Rout, lie of God, who we adore, The God whom gods abhor. But, would ye hear my words and heed them, And apply the remedy, Ye might, perchance, find comfort and relief. Mind you, I speak as one who comes a stranger to this dripple, No less than to the crime. For how unaided could I track it far without a clue? Which lacking? For too late was I enrolled a citizen of Thebes. This proclamation I address to all. Thebans, If any knows the man by whom Laus, Son of Labdacus was slain, I summon him to make clean shrift to me. And if he shrinks, let him reflect that, Thus confessing, he shall escape the capital charge. For the worst penalty that shall befall him is banishment. Unscathed he shall depart. But if an alien from a foreign land Be known to any as the murderer, Let him who knows speak out, And he shall have due recompense from me and thanks to boot. But if ye still keep silence, If through fear for self or friends ye disregard my haste, Hear what I then resolve, I lay my ban on the assassin who so ere he be. Let no man in this land Whereof I hold the sovereign rule, Harbour, or speak to him. Give him no part in prayer or sacrifice or lustral rites, But hound him from your homes. For this is our defilement, So the God hath lately shown to me my oracles. Thus as their champion I maintain the cause, Both of the God and the murdered King, And on the murderer this curse I lay, On him and all the partners in his guilt. Wretch may he pine in utter wretchedness. And for myself, if with my privity he gain admittance to my hearth, I pray the curse that I laid on others fall on me. See that ye give effect to all my haste, For my sake and the God's, and for our land, A desert blasted by the wrath of heaven. For let alone the God's express command It were a scandal ye should leave unpurged The murder of a great man and your King. Nor track it home, and now that I am Lord, Successor to his throne, his bed, his wife. And had he not been frustrated in the home of issue, Common children of one womb Had forced a closer bond, twext him and me. But fate swooped down upon him. Therefore I, his blood Avenger, Will maintain his cause as though he were my sire, And leave no stone unturned to attract the assassin, Or avenge the son of Labdarchus, of Polydor, Of Cadmus, and againer, first of the race. And for the disobedient thus I pray, May the God's send them neither timely fruits of earth, Nor teeming increase of the womb. But may they waste and pine, as now they waste, Dry and worse, stricken. But to all of you, my loyal subjects, Who approve my acts, may justice our ally, And all the God's be gracious, and attend you ever more. The oath thou profferest, sire, I take, and swear. I slew him not myself, nor can I name this lair. For the quest, twirl well, he thinks, That Phoebus, who proposed the riddle, Himself should give the answer, who the murderer was. Well argued, but no living man can hope to force the gods To speak against their will. May I then say what seems next best to thee? I, if there be a third best, tell it too. I leash, if any man sees I to I with our Lord Phoebus, To the prophet Lord Tiresius. He of all men best might guide a searcher of this matter to the light. Here too my zeal has nothing lacked, For twice at Creon's instance have I sent to fetch him, And long I marvel why he is not here. I mined me too of rumours long ago, mere gossip. Tell them, I would feign no all. Twas said he fell by travellers. So I heard, but none has seen the man who saw him fall. Well, if he knows what fear is, He will quail and flee before the terror of thy curse. Words scare not him who blenches not at deeds. But here is one to arraign him. Though at length they bring the god-inspired seer in, Whom above all other men is truth inborn. Enter Tiresius, led by a boy. Tiresius, seer who comprehended all, Lord of the wise and hidden mysteries, High things of heaven and low things of the earth. Thou knowest, though thy blinded eyes see naught, What plague infects our city, And we turn to thee, O seer, our one defence and shield. The purpose of the answer that the god returned to us Who saw his oracle, the messengers, how doubtless told thee. How one course alone could rid us of the pest, To find the murderers of Laos, And slay them or expel them from the land. Therefore begrudging neither augury, Nor other divination that is thine, O save thyself, thy country and thy king. Save all from this defilement of bloodshed. On thee we rest, this is man's highest end, To others' service all his powers to then. Alas, what misery to be wise, when wisdom profits nothing, This old lore had forgotten, else I were not here. What ails thee? Why this melancholy mood? Let me go home, prevent me not, To a best that thou should spare thy bedden, and I mine. For shame! No true-born Theban patriot Would thus withhold the word of prophecy. Thy words, O king, are wide at the mark, And I for fear lest I chew trip like thee. O speak! With hold not, I adjure thee, If thou knowest thy knowledge. We are all thy saplings. I, for ye all are witless, My voice will never reveal my miseries, or thine. What then? Thou knowest, and yet wilt not speak? Wouldst thou betray us, and destroy the state? I will not vex myself nor thee. Why ask thus idly what for me Thou shalt not learn? Monster! Thy silence would incense a flint. Will nothing loose thy tongue? Can nothing melt thee, Or shake thy dogged taciturnity? Thou blames my mood, and see is not thine own, Wherewith thou art made it, no, thou taxest me. And who could stay his collar, When he heard how insolently thou dost flout the state? Well, it will come, what will, though I be mute. Since come it must, thy duty is to tell me. I have no more to say. The storm is thou willest, and give the rain to all thy pent-up rage. Yea, I am wroth, and wilt not stint my words, But speak my whole mind. Thou, methinks, thou art he, who planned the crime? I am performed it too. All save the assassination, and if thou hadst not been blind, I had been sworn to boot, that thou alone didst do the bloody deed. It so, that I charge thee to abide by thine own proclamation. From this day speak not these or me, Thou art the man, thou the accursed polluter of this land. Lyle slanderer, thou bluttest forth these taunts, And thinkst foresooth that seared to go scot-free? Yea, I am free, strong the strength of truth. Who was thy teacher? Thou, methinks, thy art? Thou, goading me against my will to speak. What speech? Repeat it, and resolve my doubt. Dismiss my sense, which thou goad me on. Aye, but half caught by meaning. Say it again. I say thou art the murderer of the man whose murder thou persuist. Thou shalt ruin it, twice to repeat so gross a calamity. Must I say more to aggravate thy rage? Say all thou wilt. It will be but waste of breath. I say thou livest with my thine nearest skin and infamy, Unwitting in my shame. Thinks thou, for I unscathed to wag thy tongue? Yea, if the might of truth can ought prevail. With other men but not with thee, For thou in ear, wit, eye, in everything art blind. Poor fool, and utter guives at me, Which all hear proximal cast back on thee ere long. Offspring of endless night, Thou hast no power, or me, or any man who sees the sun. No, for thy weird is not to fall by me. I leave to follow what concerns the God. Is this a plot of Creeon, or thine own? Not Creeon, thou my self art thine own bane. Oh, wealth and empirey, and skill by skill, Outwitted in the battlefield of life, What spite and envy follow in your train. See, for this crown the state conferred on me a gift, A thing I sought not, for this crown the trusty Creeon, My familiar friend hath laid in wait to oust me, And so borne this mounty-bank, this juggling charlatan, This tricksy beggar priest, for gain alone keen-eyed, But in his proper art stoned blind. Say, sirrah, has thou ever proved thyself a prophet? When the riddling Sphinx was here, Why hadst thou no deliverance for this folk? And yet the riddle was not to be solved by guesswork, But required the prophet's art, Wherein thou whilst found lacking, Neither birds nor sign from heaven helped thee. But I came, the simple Edipus, I stopped her mouth by mother Whit, Untold of auguries. This is the man thou wouldst undermine, In hope to reign with Creeon in my stead. Me thinks that thou, and thine are better, Soon will rule your plot to drive the scapegoat out. Thank thy grey hairs, that thou hast still to learn, What chastisement such arrogance deserves. To us it seems, that both seer and thou, O Edipus, have spoken angry words. This is no time to wrangle but consult How best we may fulfill the oracle. King is thou art, free speech at least is mine. To make reply in this I am thy peer. I own no law but loxious. Hermes serve, and ne'er can stand and roll Thus Creeon's man, thus then I answer. Since thou hast not spared to twit me With my blindness, thou hast eyes. Yet seeest not in what misery thou art fallen, No where thou dwellest know with whom for mate. Dost know thy lineage? Nay, thou knowest it not, And all unwitting art of the double foe. To thine own kin, to thine own kin, The living and the dead, I, and the dogging curse Of mother and sire, one day shall drive thee Like a two-edged sword, beyond our borders, And the eyes, and now, see clear, Shall henceforward endless night. Ah, wither shall thy bitter cry not reach, What crag and all citheron, But shall then reverberate thy will, When thou hast found, Where the wiminal thou was suborn home, But to no fair haven on the gale. I, and a flood of ills, thou guessest not, Shall set thyself and children in one line. Flout, then, both Creeon and my words, For none of mortals shall be stricken worse than thou. Must I endure this fellow's insolence, And my reign on thee, yet the hence, Be gone, avaunt, and never cross my threshold more? I near had come hats thou not bid in me. I knew not thou wouldst at a folly, Else long hadst thou waited to be summoned here. Such am I, as it seems to thee a fool, But to the parents who begat thee wise. What sayest thou, parents? Who begat me? Speak. The stay shall be thy birthday, and thy grave. Thou lovest to speak in riddles and dark words. In reading riddles, who so skilled is thou? Twit me with that where in my greatness lies. And yet this very greatness proved thy bane. No matter if I save the commonwealth. Tis time I left thee. Come, boy, take me home. Yie, take him quickly, for his presence irks and lets me. Gone, thou canst not play me more. I go, but first will tell thee why I came. Thy frown I dread not, for thou canst not harm me. Hear them! This man whom thou has sought to arrest With threats and warrants, this long while, The wretch who murdered Lyus, that a man is here. He passes for an alien the land, But soon shall prove a Theban native-born. And yet his fortune brings him little joy, For blind of seeing clan and beggars' weeds, For purple robes and leaning on his staff, To a strange land he shall soon grope his way, And of the children inmates of his home. He shall be proved the brother and the sire of her, Who bear him son and husband both, Co-partner and assassin of a sire. Go and imponder this, and if thou find That I have missed the mark, henceforth declare That I have no wit nor skill and prophecy. Excient, Tiresias and Oedipus. Who is he by voice immortal named? From Pithya's rocky cell, Dewar of foul deeds of bloodshed, Horrors that no tongue can tell. A foot for flight he needs, Fleeter than storm-swift steeds, For on his heels doth follow, Armed with the lightnings of his sire Apollo, Like sleuth hounds, too, the fates pursue. Ye, but now flashed forth for summons From Parnassus snowy peak, Near and far the undiscovered doer Of this murder seek. Now, like a sullen bull he roves, Through forest breaks and upland groves, And vainly seeks to fly, The doom that ever nigh flits o'er his head, Still by the avenging he besped, The voice divine from earth's mid-shrine. So perplexed am I, by the words of the master seer? Are they true? Are they false? I know not, and bridle my tongue for fear, Fluttered with vegs or mice, More present nor future is clear. Qual of ancient date, or in days still near, Know I none, to which the Lydacean house And our ruler, Polly the sun. Proof is there none. How then can I challenge our king's good name? How in a blood feud join, For an untracked deed of shame? All wise are Zeus and Apollo, And nothing is hid from their ken. They are gods, and in wits A man may surpass his fellow men. But that immortal seer knows more than I know. Where have this been proven? Or how without sign assured Can I blame him who saved our state, When the waned songstress came? Tested and tried, in the light of us all, Like gold is saved. How can I now assent When a crime is on Oedipus laid? Friends, countrymen, I learn King Oedipus Have laid against me a most grievous charge, And come to you protesting. If he deems that I have harmed or injured him in ought, By word or deed in this our present trouble, I care not to prolong the span of life. Thus ill reputed, for the calumny hits not a single blot, But blast my name, if by the general voice I am denounced false to the state, And false by you, my friends. This taunt at well may be Was boarded out in petulance, Not spoken advisably. Did any dare pretend That it was I prompted the seer To utter a forged charge? Such things were said, With one in ten, I know not. Were not his wits and vision all astray, When upon me he fixed this monstrous charge? I know not. To my sovereign's axe I am blind. Below, he comes to answer for himself. Enter Oedipus. Sira, what makes thou here? Thus thou presumed to approach my doors, Thou brazen face rogue? My murderer and the filter of my crown? Come, answer this. Didst thou detect in me some touch of cowardice Or witlessness that made the undertake this enterprise? I seem, forsooth, too simple To perceive the serpent stealing on me in the dark, Or else too weak to scotch it when I saw? This thou art witless, seeking to possess Without a following or friends, a crown, A prize that followers and wealth must win. Attend me. Thou hast spoken, tis my turn to make reply, Then having heard me judge. Thou art glib of tongue, but I am slow to learn of thee. I know too well thy venomous hate. First I would argue out this very point. Oh, argue not that thou art not a rogue. If thou dost count of virtue stubbornness, Unschooled by reason, thou art much astray. If thou dost hold a kinsman, May be wronged and no pains follow, Thou art much to seek. Therein thou judgest rightly. But this wrong that thou legest, tell me what it is. Didst thou or didst thou not advise That I should call the priest? Yes, and I stand to it. Tell me, how long is it since Laos? Since Laos I follow not thy drift. Thy violent hands was spirited away. In the dim past many years are gone. Did the same prophet then pursue his craft? Yes, skilled is now and in no less repute. Did he at that time ever glance at me? Not to my knowledge, not when I was by. But was no search an inquisition made? Surely full quest was made, but nothing learned. Why fail the seer to tell his story then? I know not, and not knowing hold my tongue. This much thou knowest and can surely tell. What means now? All I know I will declare. But for thy prompting never had the seer ascribed to me the death of Laos. If so he, thou knowest best. But I would put thee to the question in my turn. Question, and prove me murderer if thou canst. Then let me ask thee, didst thou wed my sister? Perfect so plain, I cannot well deny. And as thy consort queen she shares the throne? I grant her freely all her heart desires. And with you twain I share the triple rule? Yea, and it is that proves thee a false friend. Not so if thou wouldst reason with I self, as I with myself. First I bid thee think would any mortal choose a troubled reign of terrors rather than secure repose if the same power were given him. As for me I have no natural craving for the name of king preferring to do kingly deeds, and so thinks every sober-minded man. Now all my needs are satisfied through thee, and I have not to fear. But were I king, my acts would oft run counter to my will. How could a title then have charms for me above the sweets of boundless influence? I am not so infatuated as to grasp the shadow when I hold a substance fast. Now all men cry me God's speed, wish me well, and every suitor seeks to gain my ear if he would hope to win a grace from thee. Why should I leave the better, choose the worse? That were sheer madness, and I am not mad. No such ambition ever tempted me, nor would I have share in such intrigue. And if thou doubt me first to Delphi go, there ascertain if my report was true of the God's answer. Next investigate if with the seer I plotted or conspired, and if it proves so, sentence me to death. Not by thy voice alone, but mine and thine. But oh, condemn me not without appeal on bare suspicion. Tis not right to adjudge bad men at random good, or good men bad. I would as leave a man should cast away the thing he counts most precious, his own life, as spurn a true friend. Thou wilt learn in time the truth, for time alone reveals the just, a villain is detected in a day. To one to walketh warily, his words commend themselves. Swift counsels are not sure. When with swift strides the stealthy plotter stalks, I must be quick too with my counter-plot. To wait his onset passively, for him is sure success. For me, I shall defeat. What thence thy will? To banish me the land? I would not have thee banished, no, but dead. That men may mark the wages envy-reeps. I see thou wilt not yield nor credit me. None but a fool would credit such as thou. Thou art not wise. Wise for myself, at least. Why not for me too? Why, for such a knave? Suppose thou lackest sense? Yet kings must rule. Not if they rule ill. Oh, my Thebans! Hear him! Thy Thebans! Am not I a Theban, too? Cease, Princess. Lo, there comes a nun too soon. Jacasta from the palace, who so fed his peacemaker to reconcile your feud. Enter, Jacasta. Musguided Princess, why have ye appraised this wordy wrangle? Are ye not ashamed, while the whole land lies stricken, thus to voice her private injuries? Go, and, my lord, go home, my brother, and forbear to make a public scandal of a petty grief. My royal sister, Oedipus, thy lord, hath bid me choose, O dread alternative, an outlaw's exile or a felon's death. Yes, lady. I have caught him practising against my royal person his vile arts. May I ne'er speed but die accursed if I in any way am guilty of this charge. Believe him, I adjure thee, Oedipus, first for his solemn oath's sake, then for mine, and for thine elder's sake, who wait on thee. Heart and king reflect, we pray thee, but not stubborn, but relent. Say to what should I consent? Respect a man whose property and truth are known to all, and now confirmed by oath. Does no what grace thou cravest? Yea, I know. Declare it, then, and make thy meaning plain. Brand not a friend to babbling tons of sale, but not suspicion against his oath prevail. Betink you that in seeking this, ye seek in very suit my death or banishment? No, by the leader of the host divine. Witness thou, son, such thought was never mine. Unblessed and friended may I perish, if ever I such wish to cherish. But, oh, my heart is desolate. Musing on our stricken state, doubly fond, should discord broach with stew twain to crown our woe. Well, let him go, no matter what it costs me, or certain death or shameful banishment. For your sake I relent, not his, and him, where ere he be, my heart shall still abhor. Thou art as sullen in thy yielding mood, as in thine anger thou wast truculent. Such tempers justly plague themselves the most. Leave me in peace, and get thee gone. I go, by thee misjudged, but justified by these. Exiant Creon. Lady, lead endures thy consorts. Wherefore longer here delay? Tell me first how rose the fray. Rumours bred unjust suspicious, and injustice wrinkled sore. Were both at fault? What was the tale? The land is sore distressed, toward better sleeping ill it's to leave at rest. Strange council, friend. I know thou means me well, and yet would mitigate and blunt my zeal. King, I say it once again. Witness where I proved insane, if I lightly put away thee, my country's prop, and stay. Pilot, who endanger sought, to a quiet haven broad, are distracted state. And now who can guide us right, but thou? Let me too. I adjur thee. No, O King. What cause hath stirred this unrelenting wrath? I will. For thou art more to me than these. Lady, the cause is Creon and his plots. But what provoke the quarrel? Make this clear. He points me out as Leus' murderer. Of his own knowledge? Or upon report? He is too cunning to commit himself, and makes a mouthpiece of a navish seer. Then thou mayst ease thy conscience on that score. Listen, and I'll convince thee that no man hath scarred a lot in the prophetic art. Here is the proof in brief. An oracle once came to Leus. I will not say it was from the Delphic God himself, but from his ministers, declaring he was doomed to perish by the hand of his own son, a child that should be born to him by me. Now Leus, so at least report affirmed, was murdered on a day by highwaymen, no natives, at a spot where three roads meet. As for the child, it was but three days old, when Leus, its ankles pierced and pinned together, gave it to be cast away by others on the trackless mountain side. So then Apollo brought it not to pass, the child should be his father's murderer, or the dread terror find accomplishment, and Leus be slain by his own son. Such was the prophet's horoscope. O king, regard it not. What error the God deems fit to search, himself unnated will reveal. What memories? What wild tumult of the soul came over me, lady, as I heard thee speak. What means thou? What has shocked and startled thee? Me thought I heard thee say, that Leus was murdered at the meeting of three roads. So rend the story that is current still. Where did this happen? Does thou know the place? Fosses the land is called. The spot is where branch roads from Delphi and from Dolis meet. And how long is it since these things befell? To us but a brief while where thou was proclaimed our country's ruler that the news was brought. O Zeus, what has thou willed to do with me? What is it, Edipus, that moves thee so? Ask me not yet. Tell me the build and height of Leus. Was he still in manhood's prime? Tall was he, and his hair was slightly strewn with silver, and not unlikely in form. O woe is me! Methinks unwittingly I laid but now a dread curse upon myself. What says thou? When I look upon thee, my king, I tremble. Tis a dread presentiment, that in the end the seer will prove not blind. One further question to resolve my doubt. I quail, but ask, and I will answer all. Had he but few attendants, or a train of armed retainers with him, like a prince? They were but five and all, and one of them a herald, Lyos and a mule-car rode. Alas! Tis clear as noonday now. But say, lady, who carried this report to Thebes? A surf, the sole survivor who returned. Happily he is at hand, or in the house? No, for as soon as he returned and found thee reigning in the stead of Lyos Lane, he clasped my hand and supplicated me to send him to the Alps and Pastures, where he might be farthest from the sight of Thebes, and so I sent him, to as an honest slave and well deserved some better recompense. Fetch him at once. I feign would see the man. He shall be brought, but wherefore summon him? Lady, I fear my tongue has overrun discretion. Therefore I would question him. Well, he shall come, but may not I too claim to share the burden of thy heart, my king? And thou shalt not be frustrate of thy wish. Now, my imaginings have gone so far. Who has a higher claim than thou to hear my tale of dire adventures? Listen, then. My sire was polybos of Corinth and my mother Meropy Adorian, and I was held the foremost citizen till a strange thing befell me, strange indeed, yet scarce deserving all the heat it stirred. A roisterer at some banquet, flown with wine, shouted, Thou art not true son of thy sire. It irked me, but I stomached for the nonce the insult. On the morrow I sought out my mother and my sire and questioned them. They were indignant at the random slur cast on my parentage, and did their best to comfort me. But still the venom barb rankled, for still the scandal spread and grew. So, privily, without their leave, I went to Delphi, and Apollo sent me back, bought to the knowledge that I came to seek. But other grievous things he prophesied. Woes, lamentations, mourning, portents, dire! To it I should defile my mother's bed, and raise up seed too loathsome to behold, and slay the father from whose loins I sprang. Then, lady, thou shalt hear the very truth. As I drew near the triple-branching roads, a herald met me, and a man who sat in the car drawn by colts, as in thy tail. The man in front and the old man himself threatened to thrust me rudely from the path. Then, jostled by the charioteer, in wrath I struck him, an old man seeing this watched till I passed, and from his car, brought down full on my head, the double-pointed gold. Yet, whilst I quits with him and more, one stroke of my good staff sufficed to fling him clean out of the chariot seat, and laid him prone. And so I slew them, every one. But if, betwixt this stranger, though was wrought in common with Laos, who more miserable than I? What mortal could you find, more God-abhorred, wretch whom no sojourner, no citizen may harbour or address, whom all are bound to harry from their homes? And this same curse was laid on me, and laid by none but me. Yea, with these hands all gory I pollute the bed of him I slew. Say, am I vile? Am I not utterly unclean? A wretch doomed to be banished, and in banishment forego the sight of all my dearest ones, and never tread again my native earth, or else to wed my mother, and slay my sire Polybius, who begat me, and upreared? If one should say this is the handiwork of some in human power, who could blame his judgment? But ye pure and awful gods, forbid, forbid that I should see that day! May I be blotted out from living men, ere such a plague-spot set on me its brand? We too, O King, are troubled, but till thou hast questioned the survivor, still, hope on. My hope is faint, but still enough survives to bid me bide the coming of this herd. Suppose in here, what wouldst thou learn of him? I'll tell thee, lady, if his tale agrees with thine, I shall have escaped calamity. And what of special import did I say? In thy report of what the herdsmen said, layers were slain by robbers. Now, if he still speaks of robbers, not a robber, I slew him not, one with many cannot square. But if he says one lonely wayfarer, the last link wanting to my guilt is forged. Well, rest assured, his tale rend thus at first, nor can he now retract what then he said. Not I alone, but all our townsfolk heard it. Even should he vary somewhat in his story, he cannot make the death of Lyus in any wise jump with the oracle. Feroxia said expressly he was doomed to die by my child's hand. But he, poor babe, he shed no blood, but perished first himself, so much for divination. Henceforth I will look for signs neither to right nor left. Thou reasonest well. Still I would have thee send and fetch the bondsmen hither. See to it. That will I straightway. Come, let us within. I would do nothing that my lord mislikes. My lot be still to lead the life of innocence and fly a reference in word or deed. To follow still those laws ordained on high, whose birthplace is the bright ethereal sky. No mortal birth may earn Olympus their progenitor a bone. Nair shall they slumber in oblivion cold, the god in them is strong and grows not old. Of insolence is bred the tyrant. Insolence full blown with empty riches surfeted, scales the precipitous height and grasps the throne, and topples door and lies in ruin prone. No foothold on that disease steep. But oh may heaven a true patriot keep, who burns with emulous zeal to serve the state. God is my help and hope, on him I wait. But the proud sinner or in word or deed that will not justice he, nor reverence the shrine of images divine, perdition sees his vain imaginings. If urged by greed profane, he grasps at ill-got gain, and lays an impious hand on holiest things. Who in such deeds are done can hope heaven's boats to shun? If sin like this to honor can aspire, why dance I still in need the sacred choir? No more I'll seek earth's central oracle, or abyss hallowed fowl, nor to Olympia bring my votive offering. If before all, God's truth be not bade plain, O Zeus, reveal thy might. King, if thou art named to write, omnipotent all seeing as of old, for liars is forgot. His weird, many heed it not. Apollo is forsook, and faith grows cold. Enter Jacasta. My Lord, you look amazed to see your queen with breaths and gifts of incense in her hands. I had a mind to visit the high shrines, for Oedipus is overwrought, alarmed with terrors manifold. He will not use his past experience like a man of sense, to judge the present needs, but lends an ear to any croaker if he augurs ill. Since then my counsel's not avail. I turn to thee, our present help in time of trouble. Apollo, Lord Lycean, and to thee my prayers and supplications here I bring. Lighten us, Lord, and cleanse us from this curse. For now we all are cowed like mariners, who see their helmsman dumbstruck in the storm. Enter Corinthian Messenger. My Masters, tell me where the palace is of Oedipus. Or better, where's the king? Here's the palace, he bides with him. This is his queen, the mother of his children. All happiness attend her in the house. Blessed is her husband and her marriage-bed. My greetings to thee, stranger. Thy fair words deserve a like response. But tell me, why thou comest? What thy need or what thy news? Good for thy consort, and the royal house. What may it be? Whose messenger art thou? The Isthmian commons have resolved to make thy husband king. So it was reported there. What? Is not H. Polybus still king? No, verily. He's dead and in his grave. What? Is he dead? The sire of Oedipus? If I speak falsely, may I die myself. Quick, Maiden, bear these titans to my lord. Ye gods and oracles restend ye now. This is the man whom Oedipus long shunned, in dread to prove his murder. And now he dies in nature's course, not by his hand. Enter Oedipus. My wife, my queen Jocasta, why hast thou summoned me from my palace? Hear this man, and as thou hearest judge what has become of all those awe-inspiring oracles. Who is this man, and what is news for me? He comes from Corinth, and his message this. Thy father Polybus hath passed away. What? Let me have it, stranger, from thy mouth. If I must first make plain beyond a doubt my message, know that Polybus is dead. By treachery or by sickness visited. One touch will send an old man to his rest. So of some malady he died, poor man. Yes, having measured the full span of years. Out on it, lady. Why should one regard the pithy and hearth, or birds that scream in the air? Did they not point at me as doomed to slay my father? But he's dead and in his grave, and here am I who ne'er unsheathed a sword, unless the longing for his absent son killed him, and so I slew him in a sense. But as they stand, the oracles are dead, dust, ashes, nothing, dead as Polybius. Say, did not I foretell this long ago? Thou didst, but I was misled by my fear. Then let I no more weigh upon thy soul. Must I not fear my mother's marriage-bed? Why should a mortal man, the sport of chance, with no assured foreknowledge be afraid? Best live a careless life from hand to mouth. This wedlock with thy mother, fear not thou. How oft it chances that in dreams a man has wed his mother. He who least regards such brain-sick fantasies, lives most at ease. I should have shared in full like confidence. We're not my mother living, since she lives. Though half-convinced, I still must live in dread. And yet thy sire's death lights out darkness much. Much, but my fear is touching her who lives. Who may this woman be whom thus you fear? Merope, stranger, wife of Polybius. And what of her can cause you any fear? A heavens-end oracle of dread in port. A mystery. Or may a stranger hear it? Ay, it is no secret. Loxius once foretold that I should mate with my own mother, and shared with my own hands the blood of my own sire. Hence Corinth was, for many a year to meet, a home distant, and I trove abroad. But mist the sweetest sights my parent's face. Was this the fear that exiled thee from home? Yea, and the dread of slaying my own sire. Why, since I came to give thee pleasure, King, have I not rid thee of this second fear? Well, thou shalt have'd you gweren for thy pains. Well, I confess what chiefly made me come, was hope to profit by thy coming home. Nay, I will ne'er go near my parents more. My son, tis plain. Thou knowest not what thou doest. Thou so, old man, for heaven's sake, tell me all. If this is why thou dreadest to return. Yea, lest the God's word be fulfilled in me. Lest through thy parents thou shouldst be accursed. This and none other is my constant dread. Dost thou not know thy fears are baseless all? How baseless, if I am their very son. Since Polybus was not to thee in blood. What sayest thou? Was not Polybius my sire? As much thy sire as I am, and no more. My sire no more to me than one who is nought. Since I beget thee not, no more did he. What reason had he then to call me son? Know that he took thee from my hands a gift. Yet, if no child of his, he loved me well. A childless man till then, he warmed to thee. A foundling or a purchased slave this child. I found thee in Sitharians wooded glens. What led thee to explore these upland glades? My business was to tend the mountain flocks. Vagrant shepherd journeying for hire. True, but thy Saviour in that hour, my son. My Saviour? From what harm? What ailed me then? Those ankle joints are evidence anow. Ah, why remind me of that ancient saw? I loosed the pin that riveted thy feet. Yes, from my cradle that dread brand I bore. Wents thou derivest the name that still is thine? Who did it? I joy thee tell. Tell me who. Say, was it father? Mother? I know not. The man from whom I had thee may know more. What? Did another find me, not thyself? Not I. Another shepherd gave thee me. Who was he? Wouldst thou know again the man? He passed indeed for one of Leos's house. The king who ruled the country long ago? The same. He was a herdsman of the king. And is he living still for me to see him? His fellow countrymen should best know that. Doth any bystander among you know the herd he speaks of, or by seeing him a field or in the city? Answer straight. The hour hath come to clear this business up. He thinks he means none other than a hind, Thou and on were't vain to see, but that our queen Joe Costa best of all could tell. Madam, dost know the man we sent to Fitch? Is it the same of whom the stranger speaks? Who is the man? What matter? Let it be. To a waste of thought to weigh such idle words. No. With such guiding clues I cannot fail to bring to light the secret of my birth. As thou cares for thy life, give or disquest. Enough the anguish I endure. Be of good cheer, though I be proved the son of a bondswoman. Aye, through three dissents triply a slave thy honour is unsmerged. Yet, humour me, I pray thee, do not this. I cannot. I must probe the matter home. Tis for thy sake I advise thee for the best. I grow impatient of this best advice. Ha, mace thou never discover who thou art. Go, fetch me here the herd, and leave yon woman to glory in her pride of ancestry. How woe is thee, poor wretch! With that last word I leave thee henceforth silent evermore. Exit Jacasta. Why, Oedipus, why stun with passionate grief, have the queen thus departed? Much I fear when this dead calm will burst a storm of woes. Let the storm burst. My fixed resolve still holds to learn my lineage. Be it near so low. It may be she, with all a woman's pride, thinks scorn of my base parentage. But I, who rank myself as fortune's favourite child, the giver of good gifts, shall not be shamed. She is my mother, and the changing moons my brethren, and with them I wax and wane. Thus sprung? Why should I fear to trace my birth? Nothing could make me other than I am. If my soul prophetic ere not, if my wisdom ought avail, thee, sithern, I shall hail as the nurse and foster-mother of our Oedipus, shall greet ere tomorrow's full moon-rises, and exalt thee as is yet. Dance and song shall he my praises, lover of our royal race. Phoebus may my words find grace. Child, who bear thee nymph for goddess? Sure, thou sure was more than man. Happily the hell-roamer pan of didloxious spaghetti, for he haunts the upland old, of Silene's lord, or Bacchus, dweller on the hilltop's cold. Did Thysonion-Orient give him thee a newborn joy? Nymphs, with which he loved toy. Elders, if I, who never yet before have met the man, may make a guess. Methinks I see the herdsmen whom we long have sought. His time-worn aspect matches with the years of yonder-aged messenger. Besides, I seem to recognise the men who bring him as servants of my own. But you, perchance, having in past days known or seen the herd, may better, by sure knowledge, my some eyes. I recognise him, and of Laius' house, a simple hind, but true as any man. Enter herdsmen. Corinthians, stranger, I address thee first. Is this the man thou meanest? This is he. And now, old man, look up, and answer all I ask thee. Was thou once of Laius' house? I was. A thrall, not purchased, but home-bred. What was thy business? How was thou employed? The best part of my life, I tended cheap. What were the pastures thou didst most requend? Chithyron, and the neighbouring Alps. Then there thou must have known Yon-man, at least by fame. Yon-man? In what way? What man dost thou mean? The man here, having met him in past times. Of hand I cannot call him well to mind. No wonder, master. But I will revive his blunted memories. Sure he can recall what time together, both we drove our flocks, he too, I won, on the Sotharian range, for three long summers. I his mate from spring till rose Arcturus. Then, in wintertime, I led mine home, he his, to Laius' folds. Did these things happened as I say, or no? Tis long ago, but all thou sayst is true. Well, thou must then remember giving me a child to rear as my own foster son. Why dost thou ask this question? What of that? Friend, he that stands before thee was that child. A plague upon thee, hold thy wanton tongue. Softly, old man, rebuke him not. Thy words are more deserving chastisement than his. O best of masters, what is my offence? Not answering what he asks about the child. He speaks at random, babbles like a fool. If thou laxed grace to speak, I'll loose thy tongue. For most his sake abuse not an old man. Arrest the villain, seize and pinion him. Alack, alack, what have I done, what wouldst thou further learn? Didst thou give this man the child of whom he asks? I did, and would that I had died that day. And die thou shalt unless thou tell the truth. But if I tell it, I am doubly lost. The knave, me thinks, will still prevaricate. Nay, I confessed I gave it long ago. Men's game it. Was it dine, or given to thee? I had it from another, twas not mine. From whom of these are townsmen, and what house? For bear, for God's sake, master, ask no more. If I must question thee again, thou art lost. Well then, it was a child of Lyas' house. Slave-born, or one of Lyas' own race? Ah, me, I stand upon the perilous edge of speech. And I of hearing. But I still must hear. No, then, the child was by repute his own. But she within thy consort best could tell. What? She? She gave it thee? To sow, my king. With what intent? To make a way with it. What? She, its mother? Fearing a dread weird. What weird? To has told that he should slay his sire. What didst thou give it then to this old man? Through pity, master, for the babe, I thought he'd take it to the country whence he came. But he preserved it for the worst of woes. For if thou art in sooth what this man saith, Good pity thee, thou wasst a misery-born. Ah, me, ah, me. All brought to pass. All true. O light, may I behold thee nevermore. I stand a wretch in birth, in wedlock cursed. A parasite, incestuously, triply cursed. And the visions pale and fade. Thy fall, O Oedipus, thy piteous spall, Warns me, none-born of woman, blessed to call. For he, of marksmen best, O Zeus, Outshot the rest, and won the prize supreme, Of wealth and power. By him, the vulture maid was quelled, Her witchery weighed. He woes our saviour, and the land's strong tower. We hail thee, king, and from that day, Adored of mighty thieves, the universal lord. O heavy and of fate, who now more desolate, Whose tail more sad than mine, whose lot more dire. O Oedipus, this crowned head, thy cradle with thy marriage bed. One harbour is suffice for sun and sire. How could the soil, thy father eared so long, Endured to bear in silence such a wrong? All seem time have caught guilt, And to justice brought, the sun and sire, Co-mingled in one bed. O child of lyos, O star of race, What I had never held by face. I raise for thee a dirge, as o'er the dead, Had soothed to say, through thee I drew new breath, And now through thee I feel a second death. Enter Second Messenger. Most grave and reverent senators of thieves, What deeds ye soon must hear, what sights behold. How will ye mourn, if true-born patriots, Ye reverent still the race of labdicus, Nor ice the roll nor all faces as blood-eye wean, Good wash away the bloodstains from this house. The ills at shrouds, or soon will bring to light, Il's wrought of malice not unwittingly, The words start to bear our self-inflicted wounds. Grave is enough for all our tears and tears, And our past calamities. What can't thou add? My tale is quickly told and quickly heard, Our sovereign Lady Queen Jocasta's dead. Alas, poor Queen! How came she by her death? By her own hand, and all the horror of it, Not having seen yet cannot comprehend, Nathless, as far as my poor memory serves, I will relate the unhappy Lady's woe. When in her frenzy she had passed inside the vestibule, She hurried straight to win the bridal chamber, Clutching at her hair with both her hands, And once within the room she shut the doors behind her with a crash. Le'ess, she cried, and called her husband dead. Long, long ago her thought was of that child by him begot, The son by whom the sire was murdered, And the mother left to breed, With her own seed a monstrous progeny. Then she bewailed the marriage-bed, Whereon, poor wretch, she had conceived a double brood, Husband by husband, children by her child. What happened, after that, I cannot tell, Nor how the end befell, For with a shriek burst on her cedipus, All eyes were fixed on cedipus, As up and down he strode. Nor could we mark her agony to the end, For stalking to and fro a sword, he cried, Where is the wife, no wife, The teeming womb, that bore double harvest, me and mine? And in his frenzy some supernal power, Nor mortal, surely none of us who watched him, Guided his footsteps. With a terrible shriek, as though one beckoned him, He crashed against the folding doors, And from their staples forced the wrenched bolts, And hurled himself within. Then we beheld the woman hanging there, A running noose entwined about her neck, But when he saw her, with a maddened roar, He loosed the cord, and when her wretched corpse Lay stretched on earth, what followed, oh, twas dread! He tore the golden brooches that upheld her queenie robes, Appraised them high and smote, Full on his eyeballs, uttering words like this. No more shall ye behold the sights of woe, Deeds I have suffered from myself have wrought, Henceforward quenched in darkness shall ye see, Those ye should near have seen, now blind to those, Whom, when I saw, I vainly yearned to know. Such was the burden of his moan where, too, Not once but oft he struck with his hand up lift his eyes, And at each stroke the unsanguine orbs bedewed his beard, Not oozing drop by drop, but one black gory downpour, Thick as hail. Such evils issuing from the double source Have wellmed them both confounding man and wife. Till now the storied fortune of this house Was fortunate indeed, but from this day, woe, Lamentation, ruin, death, disgrace, All ills that can be named, all, all are theirs. He cries, unbar the doors and let all thieves Behold the slayer of his sire, His mother's—that shameful word my lips may not repeat. He vows to fly self-banished from the land, Nor stay to bring upon his house the curse himself had uttered, But he has no strength, no one to guide him, And his tortures more than man can suffer, As yourselves will see. For lo, the palace-portals are unbarred, And soon ye shall behold a sight so sad That he who must abhorred would pity it. More woeful sight, more woeful none, These sad eyes he looked upon. Whence this madness? None can tell who did cast on me his spell, Prowing all my life around, Leaping with the demon-bound hapless wretch. How can I brook on thy misery to look? Though to gaze on the eye yearn, Much to question, much to learn, Horror strapped away I turn, I turn. Woe is me! Whither am I born? How, like a ghost forlorn, My voice flits from me on the air. On, on the demon-goads, the end. Where? An end too dread to tell, too dark to see. Dark, dark! The horror of darkness, like a shroud, Wraps me and bears me on through mist and cloud. Ah, me, ah, me! What spasms a thwart me shoot? What pangs of agonizing memory? No marble, if in such a plight Thou feels the double weight of past and present woes. Ah, friend, still loyal, constant, still and kind, Thou cast for the blind, I know thee near, And though bereft of eyes, thy voice I recognise. Oh, doer of dread deeds, how couldst thou mar thy vision thus? What demon goad thee? Apollo, friend, Apollo! He it was that brought these ills to pass, But the right hand that dealt the blow was mine, none other. How, how could I longer see, when sight brought no delight? Alas, to doubt the self-saste. Say, friends, can any look or voice, Or touch of love henceforth my heart rejoice? Haste, friends, no fun delay. Take the twice-curse it away, far from all kin, The man abhorred of God's curse of men. Oh, thy despair well suits thy desperate case, But I had never looked upon my face. My curse on him, who ere unrived, The wafes fell fetters, and my life revived. He meant me well, yet had he left me there, He had saved my friends and me a world of care. I too wished itself. Then had I never come to shed my father's blood, Nor climbed my mother's bed. The monstrous offspring of a womb defiled, Co-mate of him who gendered me and child, Was ever man before reflected thus, like Edipus? I cannot say that thou hast counseled well, For thou were better dead than living blind. What's done was well done. Thou can never shake my firm belief. A truce to argument. For had I sight, I know not with what eyes I could have met my father in the shades. For my poor mother, sins against the twain I sinned. A sin no gallows could atone. Aye, but ye say the sight of children joys a parent's eyes. What, born as mine were born? No, such sight could never bring me joy. Nor this fair city, with its battlements, its temples, And the statues of its gods. Sights from which I, now wretchedest of all, Once ranked the foremost Theban in all Thebes, By my own sentence am cut off, Condemned by my own proclamation, Against the rich, the miscreant, By heaven itself declared unclean, And of the race of Laos, thus branded as a felon by myself. How had I dared to look you in the face? They, had I known a way to choke the springs of hearing, I had never shrunk to make a dungeon of this miserable frame, Cut off from sight and hearing, Put his bliss to bide in regions sorrow cannot reach. Why didst thou harbour me, Sither, And why didst thou not take and slay me? Then I never had shown to men the secret of my birth. Oh, Polybius, oh Corinth, oh my home, Home of my ancestors, so was thou called. How fair and nursling then I seemed, How foul the canker that lay festering in the bud. Now is the blight revealed of root and fruit, Ye triple high roads and thou hidden glen, Copies and paths where meet the three branched ways, Ye drank my blood, the life blood these hands spilt. My fathers, do ye call to mind perchance Those deeds of mine ye witnessed, And the work I wrought thereafter when I came to Thebes? Oh, fatal wedlock, thou didst give me birth, And having borne me sowed against my seed, Mingling the blood of fathers, brothers, Children, brides, wives, and mothers, An incestuous brood, All horrors that are wrought beneath the sun, Horrors so foul to name them were un-meat. Oh, I adore you, hide me anywhere, far from this land, Or slay me straight, or cast me down To the depths of oceans out of sight. Come hither, dain to touch an abject wretch, Draw near and fear not. I myself must bear the load of guilt That none but I can share. Enter Creon. Lo, here is Creon, the one man to grant thy prayer By action or advice, For he has left the state's sole guardian in thy stead. Oh, me, what words to accost him can I find? What cause has he to trust me? In the past I have been proved his rankerous enemy. Not in derision, Oedipus, I come, Nor to upgrade thee with thy past misdeeds. To bystanders. But shame upon you. If ye feel no sense of human decencies, At least revere the sun whose light beholds, And nurtures all. Leave not thus nakedly for all to gaze at, A horror neither earth nor rain from heaven, Nor light will suffer. Lead him straight within, For it is seemly that a kinsman's woes Be heard by kin and seen by kin alone. O listen, since thy presence comes to me A shock of glad surprise, So noble thou, and I so vile, O grant me one small boon. I ask it not on my behalf, but thine. And what the favour thou wouldst crave of me? Forth from thy borders, trust me with all speed. Set me within some vasty desert Where no mortal voice shall greet me any more. This had I done already, But I deemed it first behoove me to consult the God. His will was set forth fully, To destroy the pariside, the scoundrel, And I am he. Ye so he spake, But in our present plight Twer better to consult the God anew. Dare ye inquire concerning such a wretch? Ye, for thyself wouldst credit now his word. Aye, and on thee in all humility I lay this charge. Let her, who lies within, Receive such burial as thou shalt ordain. Such rite is thine as brother to perform. But for myself, O never let my thieves, The city of my sires, Be doomed to bear the burden of my presence while I live. No, let me be a dweller on the hills. On yonder mount, Sitheron, famed as mine, My tomb predestined for me by my sir and mother while they lived, That I might die slain as they sought to slay me when alive. This much I know full surely, Nor disease shall end my days, Nor any common chance, For I had near been snatched from death, Unless I was predestined to some awful doom. So be it. I wreck not how fate deals with me, But my unhappy children. For my sons, Be not concerned, O Creon, they are men, And for themselves where ere they be can fend. But for my daughters twain, Poor innocent maids, Whoever sat beside me at the board, Sharing my veins, Drinking of my cup, For them I pray thee care. And if thou wilst, Oh, might I feel their touch and make my moan. Hear me, O Prince, my noble hearted Prince, Could I but blindly touch them with my hands? I think they were still mine, as when I saw. Antigony and his many are led in. What say I? Can it be my pretty ones, whose sobs I hear? Has Creon pitted me and sent me my two darlings? Can this be? It is true. It was I who procured thee this delight, Knowing the joy they were to thee of old. God speed thee, And as mead for bringing them, May Providence deal with thee, Kindlier than it has dealt with me. O children mine, where are ye? Let me clasp you with these hands, A brother's hands, A father's hands, That made lackluster sockets of his once bright eyes. Hands of a man who blindly, recklessly, Became your sire by her from whom he sprang. Though I cannot behold you, I must weep in thinking of the evil days to come. The slights and wrongs that men will put upon you. Where ere ye go to feast or festival? No merrymaking will it prove for you. But afterbashed in tears ye will return. And when ye come to marriageable years? Where's the bold woors who will jeopardize To take unto himself such disrepute As to my children's children still must cling? For what of infamy is lacking here? Their father slew his father, Sowed the seed where he himself was gendered, And begat these maidens at the source whereof he sprung? Such are the jibes that men will cast at you. Who then will wed you? None, I wean. But ye must pine poor maids in single barrenness. O Prince, Menocetius' son, to thee I turn. With thee it rests to father them. For we, their natural parents, both of us are lost. O leave them not to wander, poor, unwed, thy kin. Nor let them share my low estate. O pity them, so young, and but for thee all destitute. Thy hand upon it, Prince, to you my children, I had much to say were ye but ripe to hear. Let this suffice. Pray ye may find some home and live content, And may your lot prove happier than your sire's. Thou hast had enough of weeping, pass within. I must obey, though tis grievous. Weep not, everything must have its day. Well, I go but on condition. What thy terms foregoing say? Send me from the land an exile. Ask this of the gods, not me. But I am the gods abhorrence. Then they soon will grant thy plea. Lead me hence, then. I am willing. Come, but let thy children go. Rob me not of these my children. Crave not mastery in all. For the mastery that raised thee was thy bane, And wrought thy fall. Look ye, countrymen and the beans. This is Oedipus the Great. He who knew the Sphinx's riddle, And was mightiest in our state. Who of all our townsmen gaze not On his fame with envious eyes? Now in what a sea of troubles Sunk and overwhelmed he lies. Therefore wait to see life's ending, ere thou count one mortal blessed. Wait till free from pain and sorrow He has gained his final rest.