That ye, although ye live,
Are but an empty dream.
What man, yea, what, knows more
Of happiness and peace,
Than just the idle show,
And then the sure decrease?
Thy fate as pattern given,
Ο Œdipus, my king,
Thy doom, yea thine, I say,
I know of none I count as truly prospering.
Antistroph. I.
Thou, once with strange success,
As archer taking aim,
Did'st hit the mark in all,
Great riches and great fame;
And did'st, (O Zeus!) lay low
The maiden skilled in song,
The monster terrible,
With talons crook'd and long.
Thou against death wast seen
Thy country's sure defence;
And therefore thou art king;
To thee the Lord of Thebes we all our homage bring.
Stroph. II.
And who of all men is more wretched now?
Who dwells with woe perpetually as thou,
In chance and change of life,
Ο Œdipus renowned, for whom was won
The same wide haven, sheltering sire and son?
Ah how, Ο mother-wife,
Could that defilèd bed, when he had come,
Receive him and be dumb?
