Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 16.djvu/206

184 And wouldest thou die! are there not woes enough Heaped on this head? O cease, my loved Jocaste, This mournful language, I am sunk already Too deep in grief without new miseries, Without thy death to fill my cup of sorrow. Let us go in: I must clear up a doubt Too justly formed, I fear: but follow me.

How couldst thou ever, my lord

No more: come in, And there confirm my terrors, or remove them.

Jocaste, 'tis in vain: say what thou wilt, These terrible suspicions haunt me still; The priest affrights me; I acquit him now, And even, in secret, am my own accuser. O! I have asked myself some dreadful questions; A thousand strange events, which form my mind Were long effaced, now rush in crowds upon me, And harrow up my soul; the past obstructs, The present but confounds me, and the future Is big with horrid truths; on every side Guilt waits my footsteps.