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 venomed barb Rankled, for still the scandal spread and grew.
So privily without their leave I went To Delphi, and Apollo sent me back Baulked of the knowledge that I came to seek. But other grievous things he prophesied, Woes, lamentations, mourning, portents dire; To wit I should defile my mother’s bed And raise up seed too loathsome to behold, And slay the father from whose loins I sprang. Warned by the oracle I turned and fled—
And Corinth henceforth was to me unknown Save as I knew its region by the stars;— Whither, I cared not, so I never might Behold my doom of infamy fulfilled. And in my wanderings I reached the place Where, as thy story runs, the king was slain. 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 a car drawn by colts—as in thy tale— 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, and the old man, seeing this, Watched till I passed and from his car brought down Full on my head the double-pointed goad.
Yet was 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 there was aught in common With Laius, 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 Forgo the sight of all my dearest ones, And never tread again my native earth; Or else to wed my mother and slay my sire,
Polybus, who begat me and upreared? If one should say, this is the handiwork Of some inhuman 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!
Chorus: We too, O king, are troubled; but till thou Hast questioned the survivor, still hope on.
Oedipus: My hope is faint, but still enough survives To bid me bide the coming of this herd.
Jocasta: Suppose him here, what wouldst thou learn of him?
Oedipus: I’ll tell thee, lady; if his tale agrees With thine, I shall have ’scaped calamity.
Jocasta: And what of special import did I say?
Oedipus: In thy report of what the herdsman said Laius was 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.
Jocasta: Well, rest assured, his tale ran thus at first, Nor can he now retract what then he said; Not I alone but all our townsfolk heard it. E’en should he vary somewhat in his story, He cannot make the death of Laius In any wise jump with the oracle. For Loxias 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.
Oedipus: Thou reasonest well. Still I would have thee send And fetch the bondsman hither. See to it.
Jocasta: That will I straightway. Come, let us within. I would do nothing that my lord mislikes. Exeunt Oedipus and Jocasta.
Chorus: Strophe 1
My lot be still to lead The life of innocence and fly Irreverence in word or deed, To follow still those laws ordained on high Whose birthplace is the bright ethereal sky. No mortal birth they own, Olympus their progenitor alone: Ne’er shall they slumber in oblivion cold, The god in them is strong and grows not old.
Antistrophe 1
Of insolence is bred The tyrant; insolence full blown, With empty riches surfeited, Scales the precipitous height and grasps the throne. Then topples o’er and lies in ruin prone; No foothold on that dizzy steep. But O may Heaven the true patriot keep Who burns with emulous zeal to serve the State. God is my help and hope, on him I wait.
Strophe 2
But the proud sinner, or in word or deed, That will not Justice heed, Nor reverence the shrine Of images divine, Perdition seize his vain imaginings, If, urged by greed profane, He grasps at ill-got gain, And lays an impious hand on holiest things. Who when such deeds are done Can hope heaven’s bolts to shun? If sin like this to honor can aspire, Why dance I still and lead the sacred choir?
Antistrophe 2
No more I’ll seek earth’s central oracle, Or Abae’s hallowed cell, 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’rt named aright Omnipotent, all-seeing, as of old; For Laius is forgot; His weird, men heed it not; Apollo is forsook and faith grows cold.
Enter Jocasta.