Took that by right of his prerogative:
And there he fitly stayed the Laian rage.
Chorus.
Is not the measure of her mourning full?
And must this stricken realm find room for more?
Messenger.
The realm is safe: but, for her princely seed—
Chorus.
I dread so much the thing thou hast to say
I scarce attend thee; what dost thou mean? Speak on!
Messenger.
If thou hast power to listen, mark my words.
The Sons of Œdipus—
Chorus.
Oh, Misery!
They say prophets of evil utter truth,
And I am of them!
Messenger.
Indistinguishably
They have gone down into the dust.
Chorus.
So far
Fallen! Thy tale is heaviness; nevertheless
Tell it to the end!
Messenger.
I tell thee they are dead:
They slew each other!
Chorus.
Ah, fraternal hands!
Too near were ye in birth, too near in blood.
