O speak to me, nor fear my jealous tears
Should interrupt the new-born happiness
Of thy late nuptials: think not that I came
To cast reproaches on thee, or with sighs
To win thy lost affection; vulgar arts,
Unworthy of us both! the heart, Jocaste,
That burned for thee, and if I may recall
Thy plighted faith, was once not hateful to thee,
Has learned, from thy example, not to feel
Weakness like that.
JOCASTE.
I must approve thy conduct,
And 'tis but fit I vindicate my own:
I loved thee, Philoctetes; but my fate
Tore me from thee, and gave me to another.
Thou knowest what woes the horrid sphinx, by heaven
Appointed to afflict us, brought on Thebes:
Too well thou knowest that Œdipus
PHILOCTETES.
Is thine;
I know it, and is worthy of the blessing:
Young as he was, his wisdom saved thy country;
His virtues, his fair deeds, and what still more
Exalted him, Jocaste's love, have ranked
Thy Œdipus among the first of men.
Wherefore did cruel fortune, still resolved
To punish Philoctetes, drive me hence,
To seek vain trophies in a distant land?
O! if the conqueror of the sphinx was doomed
To conquer thee, why was not I at Thebes?
I'd not have labored in the fruitless search
Of idle mysteries, wrapped in words of darkness;
This arm, to conquest long beneath thy smiles
Accustomed, should have drawn the vengeful sword,
