Oedipus.
Poor father! . . . ’Tis by sickness he is dead?
Stranger.
The growing years lay heavy on his head.
Oedipus.
O wife, why then should man fear any more
The voice of Pytho’s dome, or cower before
These birds that shriek above us? They foretold
Me for my father’s murderer; and behold,
He lies in Corinth dead, and here am I
And never touched the sword. . . . Or did he die
In grief for me who left him? In that way
I may have wrought his death. . . . But come what may,
He sleepeth in his grave and with him all
This deadly seercraft, of no worth at all.
Jocasta.
Dear Lord, long since did I not show thee clear . . . . ?
Oedipus.
Indeed, yes. I was warped by mine own fear.
Jocasta.
Now thou wilt cast it from thee, and forget.
Oedipus.
Forget my mother? . . . It is not over yet.
Jocasta.
What should man do with fear, who hath but Chance
Above him, and no sight nor governance
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