Jocasta. Yet, hear me, I implore you. Give up this search.
Oedipus. I will not hear of anything but searching the whole thing out.
Jocasta. I am only thinking of your good—I have advised you for the best.
Oedipus. Your advice makes me impatient.
Jocasta. May you never come to know who you are, unhappy man!
Oedipus. Go, someone, bring the herdsman here—and let that woman glory in her noble blood.
Jocasta. Alas, alas, miserable man! Miserable! That is all that I can call you now or forever. [She goes out.
Chorus. Why has the lady gone, Oedipus, in such a transport of despair? Out of this silence will burst a storm of sorrows.
Oedipus. Let come what will. However lowly my origin I will discover it. That woman, with all a woman’s pride, grows red with shame at my base birth. I think my self the child of Good Luck, and that the years are my foster-brothers. Sometimes they have set me up, and sometimes thrown me down, but he that has Good Luck for mother can suffer no dishonour. That is my origin, nothing can change it, so why should I renounce this search into my birth?
