Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/144

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Sec. Mess. Ye chieftains, honoured most in this our land,

What deeds ye now will hear of, what will see,

How great a wailing will ye raise, if still

Ye truly love the house of Labdacos!

For sure I think that neither Istros' stream

Nor Phasis' floods could purify this house,

Such horrors does it hold. But soon 'twill show

Evils self-chosen, not without free choice:

These self-sought sorrows ever pain men most.

Chorus. The ills we knew before lacked nothing meet

For plaint and moaning. Now, what add'st thou more?

Sec. Mess. Quickest for me to speak, and thee to learn;

Our sacred queen Jocasta,—she is dead.

Chorus. Ah, crushed with many sorrows! How and why?

Sec. Mess. Herself she slew. The worst of all that passed

I must omit, for none were there to see.

Yet, far as memory suffers me to speak,

That sorrow-stricken woman's end I'll tell;

For when to passion yielding, on she passed

Within the porch, straight to the couch she rushed,

Her bridal bed, with both hands tore her hair,

And as she entered, dashing through the doors,

Calls on her Laios, dead long years ago,

Remembering that embrace of long ago,

Which brought him death, and left to her who bore,

With his own son a hateful motherhood.

And o'er her bed she wailed, where she had borne

Spouse to her spouse, and children to her child;

And how she perished after this I know not;