Jocasta.
Vain men, what would ye with this angry swell
Of words heart-blinded? Is there in your eyes
No pity, thus, when all our city lies
Bleeding, to ply your privy hates? . . . Alack,
My lord, come in!—Thou, Creon, get thee back
To thine own house. And stir not to such stress
Of peril griefs that are but nothingness.
Creon.
Sister, it is the pleasure of thy lord,
Our King, to do me deadly wrong. His word
Is passed on me: ’tis banishment or death.
Oedipus.
I found him . . . I deny not what he saith,
My Queen . . . with craft and malice practising
Against my life.
Creon.
Ye Gods, if such a thing
Hath once been in my thoughts, may I no more
See any health on earth, but, festered o’er
With curses, die!—Have done. There is mine oath.
Jocasta.
In God’s name, Oedipus, believe him, both
For my sake, and for these whose hearts are all
Thine own, and for my brother’s oath withal.
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