These priests are not what the vile rabble think them,
Their knowledge springs from our credulity.
ŒDIPUS.
Would it were so! for then I might be happy.
JOCASTE.
It is: alas! my griefs bear witness to it.
Once I was partial to them like thyself,
But undeceived at length lament my folly;
Heaven hath chastised me for my easy faith
In dark mysterious lying oracles,
That robbed me of my child; I hate the base
Deluders all; had it not been for them,
My son had still been living.
ŒDIPUS.
Ha! thy son!
How didst thou lose him? By what oracles
Did the gods speak concerning him?
JOCASTE.
I'll tell thee
What from myself I would have gladly hidden.
But 'twas a false one; therefore be not moved.
Thou must have heard I had a son by Laius.
A mother's fond disquietude provoked me
To ask his fate of the great oracle.
Alas! what madness 'tis to wrest from heaven
Those secrets which it kindly would conceal:
But I was a weak woman, and a mother.
Before the priestess' feet I fell submissive,
And thus her answer was; for O, too well
I must remember what but to repeat
Now makes me tremble; but thou wilt forgive me:
"Thy son shall slay his father, sacrilegious,
Incestuous parricide." Shall I go on?
