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Not till he peril brought upon this land.

The wrong he bore with wrongs he would requite.

Ay, but 'gainst all he wrought instead of one.

Last of the gods is Strife to close dispute.

Yet him I will inter, spare then thy words.

But know thou headstrong art, and I forbid.

Woe! Woe! Dire mischiefs, vaunting loud,

House-ruiners, ye Furies dread,

Who from its roots have quenched in doom

The race of Œdipus;—alas!

What must I do? What sorrows bear?

What plan devise? How may I dare

Neither for thee the tear to shed

Nor to escort thee to the tomb?

But from the terrors of the crowd

Trembling, I shrink. Thou wilt obtain

Many to weep thy death,—but he

Forlorn, unwept, will pass,