Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 16.djvu/171



Is it my friend, my Philoctetes? Whence And wherefore comest thou to distempered Thebes In search of death, to brave the wrath of heaven? For, know, the gods on this devoted land Wreak their full vengeance: mortals dare not tread The guilty soil, to death and horror long Consigned, and from the living world cut off: Away, begone!

It suits a wretch like me: Leave me, my friend, to my unhappy fate; And only tell me, if the wrath divine Hath, in its rapid progress, spared the queen.

Jocaste lives; but round her throne still spreads The dire contagion; every fatal moment Deprives her of some faithful subject: death Steals closer by degrees, and seems to threat Her sacred life. But heaven, we trust, will soon Withdraw its vengeful arm: such scenes of blood Will sure appease its rage.

What horrid crime Could bring down so severe a punishment?