ŒDIPUS.
Well, very well
JOCASTE.
In short, it then foretold me,
This son, this monster should pollute my bed;
That I, his mother, should embrace my son,
Just recent from the murder of his father.
That thus united by these dreadful ties,
I should bear children to this hapless child.
You seem to be disordered at my story,
And dread perhaps to hear the sad remainder.
ŒDIPUS.
Proceed: what did you with the wretched infant,
Object of wrath divine?
JOCASTE.
Believed the gods;
Piously cruel, sacrificed my child,
And stifled all a mother's tenderness:
In vain the clamors of parental love
Condemned the rigid laws of partial heaven:
Alas! I meant to save the tender victim
From his hard fate that threatened future guilt,
And doomed him to involuntary crimes:
I thought to triumph o'er the oracle,
And in compassion gave him up to death.
Cruel compassion, and destructive too!
Deceitful darkness of a false prediction!
What did I reap from my inhuman care,
Did it prolong my wretched husband's life?
Alas! cut off in full prosperity,
He fell by the unknown hands of base assassins,
Not by his son. Thus were they both torn from me:
I lost my child, and could not save his father.
