And laid the howling monster at thy feet.
But O! a happier arm has wrested from me
That noblest triumph, and deserved Jocaste.
JOCASTE.
Alas? thou knowest not yet what ills await thee.
PHILOCTETES.
Thee and Alcides I have lost already:
Is there aught more to fear?
JOCASTE.
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.
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.
JOCASTE.
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
