Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 16.djvu/202

180 Thou, unhappy Prince, Thou art the man.

Alas! what do I hear!

Say, can it be, interpreter of heaven? Thou, Œdipus, the murderer of my husband! To whom Jocaste yielded with herself The throne of Thebes: the oracle is false; I know it is; thy virtues must confute it.

O! heaven, whose power decrees the fate of mortals, O! name another, or to death devote us!

Think not I mean to render ill for ill; Or from this strange reverse of fortune take A mean advantage, to return the wrongs I suffered from thy people and from thee: No, Œdipus, I'll do thee noble justice, That justice thou deniest to Philoctetes. Spite of the gods, I think thee innocent, And here I offer thee my willing hand Against thy foes: I cannot hesitate Which I should serve, a pontiff or a king. 'Tis a priest's business, whosoever he be, By whatsoever deity inspired, To pray for, not to curse, his royal master.

Transcendent virtue! execrable traitor! Here I behold a demi-god, and there