Messenger.
Be calm and listen. Œdipus' two sons—
Chorus.
Ah wretched me! Prophet I am of ills.
Messenger.
Earth drinks their blood, each by the other slain.
Chorus.
Came they to this? 'Tis horrible, yet speak.
Messenger.
Dead are our chiefs by fratricidal hands.
Chorus.
Then are they slain by hands too brotherly.
Messenger.
Prone in the dust they lie, too true the tale.
Chorus.
Thus dealt the god impartially with both.
Messenger.
Yea, he himself destroys th' ill-fated race.
Chorus.
Cause have we here for gladness and for tears. 810
The city prospers but its governors,
Twin captains have, with Scythia's welded steel,
Between them portioned all their heritage,
Holding what each received in sepulture,
Borne onward by their father's direful curse.
