Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/134

36 Fled, fearing lest his hand should slay the man;

And now he dies by fate, and not by him.

Œdip. Mine own Jocasta, why, Ο dearest one,

Why hast thou sent to fetch me from the house?

Joc. List this man's tale, and, when thou hearest, see

The plight of those the God's dread oracles.

Œdip. Who then is this, and what has he to tell?

Joc. He comes from Corinth, and he brings thee word

That Polybos thy father lives no more.

Œdip. What say'st thou, friend? Tell me thy tale thyself.

Mess. If I must needs report the story clear,

Know well that he has gone the way of death.

Œdip. Was it by plot, or chance of some disease?

Mess. An old man's frame a little stroke lays low.

Œdip. By some disease, 'twould seem, he met his death?

Mess. Yes, that, and partly worn by lingering age.

Œdip. Ha! ha! Why now, my queen, should we regard

The Pythian hearth oracular, or birds

In mid-air crying? By their auguries,

I was to slay my father. And he dies,

And the grave hides him; and I find myself

Handling no sword; unless for love of me

He pined away, and so I caused his death.

So Polybos is gone, and bears with him,

In Hades 'whelmed, those worthless oracles.

Joc. Did I not tell thee this long time ago?

Œdip. Thou did'st, but I was led away by fears.

Joc. Dismiss them, then, for ever from thy thoughts!