Cr. I am your mark, and ye with one consent
All shoot your shafts at me. Nought left untried,
Not even the craft of prophets, by whose crew
I am bought and merchandised long since. Go on!
Traffic, get gain, electrum from the mine
Of Lydia, and the gold of Ind! Yet know,
Grey-beard! ye ne’er shall hide him in a tomb.
No, not if heaven’s own eagle chose to snatch
And bear him to the throne supreme for food,
Even that pollution should not daunt my heart
To yield permission for his funeral.
For well know I defilement ne’er can rise
From man to God. But, old Tirésias, hear!
Even wisest spirits have a shameful fall
That fairly speak base words for love of gain.
Ti. Ah! where is wisdom? who considereth?
Cr. Wherefore? what means this universal doubt?
Ti. How far the best of riches is good counsel!
Cr. As far as folly is the mightiest bane.
Ti. Yet thou art sick of that same pestilence.
Cr. I would not give the prophet blow for blow.
Ti. What blow is harder than to call me false?
Cr. Desire of money is the prophet’s plague.
Ti. And ill-sought lucre is the curse of kings.
Cr. Know’st thou ’tis of thy sovereign thou speak’st this?
Ti. Yea, for my aid gives thee to sway this city.
Cr. Far-seeing art thou, but dishonest too.
Ti. Thou wilt provoke the utterance of my tongue
To that even thought refused to dwell upon.
Cr. Say on, so thou speak sooth, and not for gain.
Ti. You think me likely to seek gain from you?
Cr. You shall not make your merchandise on me!
Ti. Not many courses of the racing sun
Shalt thou fulfil, ere of thine own true blood
Thou shalt have given a corpse in recompense
For one on earth whom thou hast cast beneath,
Entombing shamefully a living soul,
And one whom thou hast kept above the ground
