A base impostor: see the glorious privilege
Of altars; thanks to their protecting veil,
With lips profane thou hast abused the power
Given thee by heaven, to arraign thy king;
And yet thou thinkest the sacred ministry
Thou hast disgraced shall withhold my wrath:
Traitor, thou shouldst have perished at the altar
Before those gods whose voice thou hast usurped.
HIGH PRIEST.
My life is in thy hands, and thou art now
The master of my fate: seize then the time
Whilst yet thou art so, for to-day thy doom
Will be pronounced. Tremble, unhappy Prince,
Thy reign is past; a hand unseen suspends
The fatal sword that glitters o'er thy head:
Soon shall thy conscious soul with horror feel
The weight of guilt; soon shalt thou quit the throne,
Where now thou sittest secure, to wander forth
A wretched exile in a distant land;
Of wholesome water and of sacred fire
Deprived, shalt take thy solitary way,
And to the caves and hollow rocks complain.
Where'er thou goest, a vengeful God shall still
Pursue thy steps; still shalt thou call on death,
But call in vain: heaven, that beholds thy fate,
Shall hide itself in darkness from thy sight;
To guilt and sorrow doomed, thou shall regret
Thy life, and wish that thou hadst ne'er been born.
ŒDIPUS.
Thus far I have constrained my wrath, and heard thee.
Priest, if thy blood were worthy of my sword,
Thy life should answer for this insolence:
