Is shaded by a broad Thessalian hat.[1]
What shall I say? . . And can it be? . . 'Tis not.—
Does my mind cheat me? Now 'tis yes, now no,
And what to say, Ο wretched me! I know not.
And yet it is none else. With clear bright glance
Advancing she salutes me, and declares320
It is mine own Ismene, no one else.
Œdip. What say'st thou, daughter?
Antig. That I see thy child,
My sister; now her voice will bid thee know.
Ismene. Ο dearest one. My father and my sister!
Of all names sweetest. Hard it was to find,
And now for sorrow it is hard to see.
Œdip. Art thou then come?
Ism. Not easy was the way.
Œdip. Touch me, my child.
Ism. I touch you both at once.
Œdip. Hast thou appeared?
Ism. Ο father, sad, most sad!
Œdip. Ο child, dear child!
Ism. Ο lives of two-fold woe!330
Œdip. Hers and mine, mean'st thou?
Isa. Yea, and mine the third!
Œdip. Why com'st thou, child?
Isa. In care for thee, my father!
Œdip. Did'st thou then yearn . . . . ?
Ism. I come to tell my tale,
With the one faithful servant that I had.
Œdip. Where are thy brothers, young and strong to work?
