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72 Ism. E'en as they are. A fearful fate is theirs.

Œdip. Oh, like in all things, both in nature's bent,

And mode of life, to Egypt's evil ways,

Where men indoors sit weaving at the loom,

And wives outdoors must earn their daily bread.

Of you, my children, those who ought to toil,

Keep house at home, like maidens in their prime,

And ye, in their stead, wear yourselves to death,

For me and for my sorrows. She, since first

Her childhood's nurture ceased, and she grew strong,

Still wandering with me sadly evermore,

Leads the old man through many a wild wood's paths,

Hungry and footsore, threading on her way.

And many a storm and many a scorching sun

Bravely she bears, and little recks of home,

So that her father find his daily bread.

And thou, my child, before did'st come to me

All oracles to tell me (those Cadmeians

Not knowing of thy errand) which were given

Touching this feeble frame; and thou wast still

A faithful guardian, when from out the land

They drove me. And what tidings bring'st thou now,

Ismene, to thy father? What has led

Thy steps from home? for that thou com'st not idly,

Nor without cause for fear, I know full well.

Ism. The sufferings which I suffered, Ο my father,

Tracking thy life where thou may'st chance to dwell,

This I pass over, for I like not twice

To grieve my soul, first bearing pain itself,

And then relating. But I come to tell

The ills that now thy wretched sons befall:

Till now they were content to leave the throne

To Creon, nor defile their country's fame,

Bearing in mind the ancient taint of blood