Oedipus: And I of hearing, but I still must hear.
Herdsman: Know then the child was by repute his own, But she within, thy consort best could tell.
Oedipus: What! she, she gave it thee?
Herdsman: ’Tis so, my king.
Oedipus: With what intent?
Herdsman: To make away with it.
Oedipus: What, she its mother?
Herdsman: Fearing a dread weird.
Oedipus: What weird?
Herdsman: ’Twas told that he should slay his sire.
Oedipus: What didst thou give it then to this old man?
Herdsman: 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, God pity thee! thou wast to misery born.
Oedipus: 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 parricide, incestuously, triply cursed. Exit Oedipus.
Chorus: Strophe 1
Races of mortal man Whose life is but a span, I count ye but the shadow of a shade! For he who most doth know Of bliss, hath but the show; A moment, and the visions pale and fade. Thy fall, O Oedipus, thy piteous fall Warns me none born of women blest to call.
Antistrophe 1
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 laid; He rose our saviour and the land’s strong tower. We hailed thee king and from that day adored Of mighty Thebes the universal lord.
Strophe 2
O heavy hand of fate! Who now more desolate, Whose tale more sad than thine, whose lot more dire? O Oedipus, discrownèd head, Thy cradle was thy marriage bed; One harbourage sufficed for son and sire. How could the soil thy father eared so long Endure to bear in silence such a wrong?
Antistrophe 2
All-seeing Time hath caught Guilt, and to justice brought The son and sire commingled in one bed. O child of Laius’ ill-starred race Would I had ne’er beheld thy face! I raise for thee a dirge as o’er the dead. Yet, sooth to say, through thee I drew new breath, And now through thee I feel a second death.
Enter Second Messenger.
Second Messenger: Most grave and reverend senators of Thebes, What deeds ye soon must hear, what sights behold! How will ye mourn, if, true-born patriots, Ye reverence still the race of Labdacus! Not Ister nor all Phasis’ flood, I ween, Could wash away the blood-stains from this house, The ills it shrouds or soon will bring to light, Ills wrought of malice, not unwittingly. The worst to bear are self-inflicted wounds.
Chorus: Grievous enough for all our tears and groans Our past calamities; what canst thou add?
Second Messenger: My tale is quickly told and quickly heard. Our sovereign lady queen Jocasta’s dead.