"Mark him now dismayed, degraded, tossed on seas of wildest woes;
Think on this, short-sighted mortal, and, till life's deciding close,
Dare not to pronounce thy fellow truly happy, truly blest,
Till, the bounds of life passed over, still unharmed he sinks to rest."—(D.)
Here ends 'Œdipus the King,' as Sophocles has presented it to us. Its "sensational" character caused it to be frequently imitated. Julius Cæsar, Lucullus, and Seneca all wrote plays bearing the same name. Corneille adapted it to suit a French audience, introducing a host of minor characters, and improving the plot, according to his own ideas, by "the pleasing episode of the loves of Theseus and of Dirce"—the latter of whom he supposes to be the daughter and heiress of Laius. Dryden and Lee again adapted it for the English stage, with the inevitable ghost and "confidant;" and it was so performed at Drury Lane, when Mr Kemble took the part of Œdipus. But of all these translations and adaptations, none comes near the majestic simplicity of the story as told by Sophocles.
