Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 16.djvu/188

166 And laid the howling monster at thy feet. But O! a happier arm has wrested from me That noblest triumph, and deserved Jocaste.

Alas? thou knowest not yet what ills await thee.

Thee and Alcides I have lost already: Is there aught more to fear?

Thou dwellest at Thebes; The detestation of avenging gods; The baneful pestilence stalks forth amongst us; The blood of Laius cries aloud, and heaven Pursues us still: the murderer must bleed; He has been sought for; some have dared to say That he is found, and call him Philoctetes.

Astonishment! the base suspicion shocks My soul, and bids my tongue be silent ever On the opprobrious theme: accused of murder! Murdering thy husband! thou canst never believe it.

O! never! 'twere injurious to thy honor To combat such imposture, or refute The vile aspersion; no, thou knowest my heart, Thou hadst my love, and couldst not do a deed Unworthy of it. Let them perish all, These worthless Thebans, who deserve their fate For thus suspecting thee: but, hence! begone! Our vows are fruitless: heaven reserves for thee Superior blessings. Thou wert born to serve The gods, whose wisdom would not bury here