Fled, fearing lest his hand should slay the man;
And now he dies by fate, and not by him.
Enter Œdipus.
Œdip. Mine own Jocasta, why, Ο dearest one, 950
Why hast thou sent to fetch me from the house?
Joc. List this man's tale, and, when thou hearest, see
The plight of those the God's dread oracles.
Œdip. Who then is this, and what has he to tell?
Joc. He comes from Corinth, and he brings thee word
That Polybos thy father lives no more.
Œdip. What say'st thou, friend? Tell me thy tale thyself.
Mess. If I must needs report the story clear,
Know well that he has gone the way of death.
Œdip. Was it by plot, or chance of some disease? 960
Mess. An old man's frame a little stroke lays low.
Œdip. By some disease, 'twould seem, he met his death?
Mess. Yes, that, and partly worn by lingering age.
Œdip. Ha! ha! Why now, my queen, should we regard
The Pythian hearth oracular, or birds
In mid-air crying?[1] By their auguries,
I was to slay my father. And he dies,
And the grave hides him; and I find myself
Handling no sword; . . . unless for love of me
He pined away, and so I caused his death. 970
So Polybos is gone, and bears with him,
In Hades 'whelmed, those worthless oracles.
Joc. Did I not tell thee this long time ago?
Œdip. Thou did'st, but I was led away by fears.
Joc. Dismiss them, then, for ever from thy thoughts!
- ↑ The "Pythian hearth," with special reference to the apparent failure of the Delphic oracle; "birds," to that of the auguries of Teiresias.
