Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Sophocles (c.496 B.C.–406 B.C.). Oedipus the King.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Lines 1000–1584

I was to slay my father. And he dies,And the grave hides him; and I find myselfHandling no sword; unless for love of meHe pined away, and so I caused his death.So Polybus is gone, and with him lie,In Hades whelmed, those worthless oracles.JOC.Did I not tell thee this long time ago?ŒDIP.Thou didst, but I was led away by fears.JOC.Dismiss them, then, for ever from thy thoughts!ŒDIP.And yet that “incest”; must I not fear that?JOC.Why should we fear, when chance rules everything,And foresight of the future there is none;’Tis best to live at random, as one can.But thou, fear not that marriage with thy mother:Such things men oft have dreams of; but who caresThe least about them lives the happiest.ŒDIP.Right well thou speakest all things, save that sheStill lives that bore me, and I can but fear,Seeing that she lives, although thou speakest well.JOC.And yet thy father’s grave’s a spot of light.ŒDIP.’Tis so: yet while she liveth there is fear.MESS.Who is this woman about whom ye fear?ŒDIP.’Tis Merope, old sir, who lived with Polybus.MESS.And what leads you to think of her with fear?ŒDIP.A fearful oracle, my friend, from God.MESS.Canst tell it; or must others ask in vain?ŒDIP.Most readily; for Loxias said of oldThe doom of incest lay on me, and IWith mine own hands should spill my father’s blood.And therefore Corinth long ago I left,And journeyed far, right prosperously I own;—And yet ’tis sweet to see a parent’s face.MESS.And did this fear thy steps to exile lead?ŒDIP.I did not wish to take my father’s life.MESS.Why, the, O king, did I who came with goodNot free thee from this fear that haunts thy soul?ŒDIP.For this, I own, I owe thee worthy thanks.MESS.For this, I own, I chiefly came to thee;That I on thy return may prosper well.ŒDIP.But I return not while a parent lives.MESS.’Tis clear, my son, thou know’st not what thou dost.ŒDIP.What is’t? By all the Gods, old man, speak out.MESS.If ’tis for them thou fearest to return…ŒDIP.I fear lest Phœbus prove himself too true.MESS.Is it lest thou shouldst stain thy soul through them?ŒDIP.This selfsame fear, old man, for ever haunts me.MESS.And know’st thou not there is no cause for fear?ŒDIP.Is there no cause if I was born their son?MESS.None is there. Polybus is naught to thee.ŒDIP.What say’st thou? Did not Polybus beget me?MESS.No more than he thou speak’st to; just as much.ŒDIP.How could a father’s claim become as naught?MESS.Well, neither he begat thee nor did I.ŒDIP.Why, then, did he acknowledge me as his?MESS.He at my hands received thee as a gift.ŒDIP.And could he love another’s child so much?MESS.Yes; for this former childlessness wrought on him.ŒDIP.And gav’st thou me as buying or as finding?MESS.I found thee in Kithæron’s shrub-grown hollow.ŒDIP.And for what cause didst travel thitherwards?MESS.I had the charge to tend the mountain flocks.ŒDIP.Was thou a shepherd born, or seeking hire?MESS.At any rate, my son, I saved thee then.ŒDIP.What evil, plight, then, didst thou find me in?MESS.The sinews of thy feet would tell that tale.ŒDIP.Ah, me! why speak’st thou of that ancient wrong?MESS.I freed thee when thy insteps both were pierced.ŒDIP.A foul disgrace I had in swaddling clothes.MESS.Thus from his chance there came the name thou bearest.ŒDIP.[starting] Who gave the name, my father or my mother;In heaven’s name tell me?MESS.This I do not know;Who gave thee to me better knows than I.ŒDIP.Didst thou, then, take me from another’s hand,Not finding me thyself?MESS.Not I, indeed;Another shepherd made a gift of thee.ŒDIP.Who was he? know’st thou where to find him out?MESS.They called him one of those that Laius owned.ŒDIP.Mean’s thou the former sovereign of this land?MESS.E’en so. He fed the flocks of him thou nam’st.ŒDIP.And is he living still that I might see him?MESS.You, his own countrymen, should know that best.ŒDIP.Is there of you who stand and listen hereOne who has known the shepherd that he tells of,Or seeing him upon the hills or here?If so, declare it; ’tis full time to speak!CHORUSI think that this is he whom from the hillsBut now thou soughtest. But Jocasta hereCould tell thee this with surer word than I.ŒDIP.Knowest thou, my queen, the man whom late we sentTo fetch; and him of whom this stranger speaks?JOC.[with forced calmness] Whom did he speak of? Care not thou for it,But wish his words may be but idle tales.ŒDIP.I cannot fail, once getting on the scent,To track at last the secret of my birth.JOC.Ah, by the Gods, if that thou valuest lifeInquire no further. Let my woe suffice.ŒDIP.Take heart; though I should turn out thrice a slave,Born of a thrice vile mother, thou art stillFree from all stain.JOC.Yet, I implore thee, pause!Yield to my counsels, do not do this deed.ŒDIP.I may not yield, and fail to search it out.JOC.And yet good counsels give I, for thy good.ŒDIP.This “for my good” has been my life’s long plague.JOC.Who thou art, hapless, mayst thou never know!ŒDIP.Will some one bring that shepherd to me here?Leave her to glory in her high descent.JOC.Woe! woe! ill-fated one! my last word this,This only, and no more for evermore.[Rushes out.CHORUSWhy has thy queen, O Œdipus, gone forthIn her wild sorrow rushing. Much I fearLest from such silence evil deeds burst out.ŒDIP.Burst out what will, I seek to know my birth,Low though it be, and she perhaps is shamed(For, like a woman, she is proud of heart)At thoughts of my low birth; but I, who countMyself the child of Fortune, fear no shame.My mother she, and she has prospered me.And so the months that span my life have made meBoth high and low; but whatsoe’er I be,Such as I am I am, and needs must onTo fathom all the secret of my birth.

STROPH

CHORUSIf the seer’s gift be mine,Or skill in counsel wise,Thou, O Kithæron, when the morrow comes,Our full-moon festival,Shalt fail not to resoundThe voice that greets thee, fellow-citizen,Parent and nurse of Œdipus;And we will on thee weave our choral dance,As bringing to our princes glad good news.Hail, hail! O Phœbus, smile on this our prayer.

ANTISTROPH

Who was it, child, that bore thee?Blest daughter of the ever-living Ones,Or meeting in the ties of love with Pan,Who wanders o’er the hills,Or with thee, Loxias, for to thee are dearAll the high lawns where roam the pasturing flocks;Or was it he who rules Kyllene’s height;Or did the Bacchic God,Upon the mountain’s peak,Receive thee as the gift of some fair nymphOf Helicon’s fair band,With whom he sports and wantons evermore?ŒDIP.If I must needs conjecture, who as yetNe’er met the man, I think I see the shepherd,Whom this long while we sought for. With the yearsHis age fits well. And now I see, besides,My servants bring him. Thou perchance canst sayFrom former knowledge yet more certainly.CHORUSI know him well, O king! For this man stood,If any, known as Laius’ faithful slave.

Enter Shepherd

ŒDIP.Thee first I ask, Corinthian stranger, say,Is this the man?MESS.The very man thou seek’st.ŒDIP.Ho, there, old man. Come hither, look on me,And tell me all. Did Laius own thee once?SHEPNot as a slave from market, but home-reared.ŒDIP.What was thy work, or what thy mode of life?SHEPNear all my life I followed with the flock.ŒDIP.And in what regions didst thou chiefly dwell?SHEPNow ’twas Kithæron, now on neighbouring fields.ŒDIP.Know’st thou this man? Didst ever see him there?SHEPWhat did he do? Of what man speakest thou?ŒDIP.This man now present. Did ye ever meet?SHEPMy memory fails when taxed thus suddenly.MESS.No wonder that, my lord. But I’ll remind himRight well of things forgotten. Well I knowHe’ll call to mind when on Kithæron’s fields,He with a double flock, and I with one,I was his neighbour during three half years,From springtide on to autumn; and in winterI drove my flocks to mine own fold, and heTo those of Laius. [To SHEPHERD] Is this false or true?SHEPThou tell’st the truth, although long years have passed.MESS.Come, then, say, on. Rememberest thou a boyThou gav’st me once, that I might rear him upAs mine own child?SHEPWhy askest thou of this?MESS.Here stands he, fellow! that same tiny boy!SHEPA curse befall thee! Wilt not hold thy tongue?ŒDIP.Rebuke him not, old man; thy words need moreThe language of reproaches than do his.SHEPSay, good my lord, what fault have I committed?ŒDIP.This, that thou tell’st not of the child he asks for.SHEPYes, for he speaks in blindness, wasting breath.ŒDIP.Thou wilt not speak for favour, but a blow…[Strikes him.SHEPBy all the Gods, hurt not my feeble age.ŒDIP.Will no one bind his hands behind his back?SHEPO man most wretched! what, then, wilt thou learn?ŒDIP.Gav’st thou this man the boy of whom he asks?SHEPI gave him. Would that day had been my last!ŒDIP.That doom will soon be thine if thou speak’st wrong.SHEPNay, much more shall I perish if I speak.ŒDIP.This fellow, as it seems, would tire us out.SHEPNot so. I said long since I gave it him.ŒDIP.Whence came it? Was the child thine own or not?SHEPMine own ’twas not, but some one gave it me,ŒDIP.Which of our people, or beneath what roof?SHEPOh, by the Gods, my master, ask no more!ŒDIP.Thou diest if I question this again.SHEPSome one it was in Laius’ household born.ŒDIP.Was it a slave, or some one born to him?SHEPAh, me! I stand upon the very brinkWhere most I dread to speak.ŒDIP.And I to hear:And yet I needs must hear it, come what may.SHEPThe boy was said to be his son; but she,Thy queen within, could tell thee best the truth.ŒDIP.What! was it she who gave it?SHEPYea, O king!ŒDIP.And to what end?SHEPTo make away with it.ŒDIP.And dared a mother…?SHEPEvil doom she feared.ŒDIP.What doom?SHEP’Twas said that he his sire should kill.ŒDIP.Why, then, didst thou to this old man resign him?SHEPI pitied him, O master, and I thoughtThat he would bear him to another land,Whence he himself had come. But him he savedFor direst evil. For if thou be heWhom this man speaks of, thou art born to ill.ŒDIP.Woe! woe! woe! woe! all cometh clear at last.O light, may I ne’er look on thee again,Who now am seen owing my birth to thoseTo whom I ought not, and with whom I ought notIn wedlock living, whom I ought not slaying.[Exit.

STROPH. I

CHORUSAh, race of mortal men,How as a thing of naughtI count ye, though ye live;For who is there of menThat more of blessing knowsThan just a little whileIn a vain show to stand,And, having stood, to fall?With thee before mine eyes,Thy destiny, e’en thine,Ill-fated Œdipus,I can count no man blest.

ANTISTROPH. I

For thou, with wondrous skill,Taking thine aim, didst hitSuccess, in all things prosperous;And didst, O Zeus! destroyThe Virgin with her talons bent,And sayings wild and dark;And against many deathsA tower and strong defenceDidst for my country rise;And therefore dost thou bear the name of king,With highest glory crowned,Ruling in mighty Thebes.

STROPH. II

And now, who lives than thou more miserable?Who equals thee in wild woes manifold,In shifting turns of life?Ah, noble one, our Œdipus!For whom the selfsame portSufficed for sire and son,In wedlock’s haven met:Ah how, ah how, thou wretched one, so longCould that incestuous bedReceive thee, and be dumb?

ANTISTROPH. II

Time, who sees all things, he hath found thee out,Against thy will, and long ago condemnedThe wedlock none may wed,Begetter and begottenIn strange confusion joined.Ah, child of Laius! ah!Would that I ne’er had looked upon thy face!For I mourn sore exceedingly,From lips with wailing full.In simplest truth, by thee I rose from death,By thee I close mine eyes in deadly sleep.

Enter Second Messenger

SEC. MESS.Ye chieftains, honoured most in this our land,For all the deeds ye hear of, all ye see,How great a wailing will ye raise, if stillYe truly love the house of Labdacus;For sure I think that neither Ister’s streamNor Phasis’ floods could purify this house,Such horrors does it hold. But all too soon,Will we or will we not, they’ll come to light.Self-chosen sorrows ever pain men most.CHORUSThe ills we knew before lacked nothing meetFor plaint and moaning. Now, what add’st thou more?SEC. MESS.Quickest for me to speak, and thee to learn;Our godlike queen Jocasta—she is dead.CHORUSAh, crushed with many sorrows! How and why?SEC. MESS.Herself she slew. The worst of all that passedI must pass o’er, for none were there to see.Yet, far as memory suffers me to speak,That sorrow-stricken woman’s end I’ll tell;How, yielding to her passion, on she passedWithin the porch, made straightway for the couch,Her bridal bed, with both hands tore her hair,And as she entered, dashing through the doors,Calls on her Laius, dead long years ago,Remembering all that birth of long ago,Which brought him death, and left to her who bore,With his own son a hateful motherhood.And o’er her bed she wailed, where she had borneSpouse to her spouse, and children to her child;And how she perished after this I know not;For Œdipus struck in with woeful cry,And we no longer looked upon her fate,But gazed on him as to and fro he rushed,For so he comes, and asks us for a sword,Wherewith to smite the wife that wife was none,The bosom stained by those accursed births,Himself, his children—so, as thus he raves,Some spirit shows her to him (none of usWho stood hard by had done so): with a shoutMost terrible, as some one led him on,Through the two gates he leapt, and from the haspHe slid the hollow bolt, and falls within;And there we saw his wife had hung herself,By twisted cords suspended. When her formHe saw, poor wretch! with one wild, fearful cry,The twisted rope he loosens, and she fell,Ill-starred one, on the ground. Then came a sightMost fearful. Tearing from her robe the clasps,All chased with gold, with which she decked herself,He with them struck the pupils of his eyes,Such words as these exclaiming: “They should seeNo more the ills he suffered or had done;But in the dark should look, in time to come,On those they ought not, not know whom they would.”With such like wails, not once or twice alone,Raising the lids, he tore his eyes, and they,All bleeding, stained his cheek, nor ceased to pourThick clots of gore, but still the purple showerFell fast and full, a very rain of blood.Such were the ills that fell on both of them,Not on one only, wife and husband both.His former fortune, which he held of old,Was rightly honoured; but for this day’s doomWailing and woe, and death and shame, all formsThat man can name of evil, none have failed.CHORUSAnd hath the wretched man a pause of ill?SEC. MESS.He calls to us to ope the gates, and showTo all in Thebes his father’s murderer,His mother’s… Foul and fearful were the wordsHe spoke. I dare not speak them. Then he saidThat he would cast himself adrift, nor stayAt home accursèd, as himself had cursed.Some stay he surely needs, or guiding hand,For greater is the ill than he can bear,And this he soon will show thee, for the boltsOf the two gates are opening, and thou’lt seeA sight to touch e’en hatred’s self with pity.Oh, fearful, piteous sight!

Œ

The doors of the Palace are thrown open, andDIPUSis seen within.

CHORUSMost fearful of all woesI hitherto have known! What madness strangeHas come on thee, thou wretched one?What power with one fell swoop,Ills heaping upon ills,Each greater than the last,Has marked thee for its prey?Woe! woe! thou doomed one, wishing much to ask,And much to learn, and much to gaze into,I cannot look on thee,So horrible the sight!Ah, woe! ah, woe! ah, woe!ŒDIP.Woe for my misery!Where am I wand’ring in my utter woe?Where floats my voice in air?Dread power, where leadest thou?To doom of dread nor sight nor speech may bear.CHORUSO cloud of darkest guiltŒDIP.That onwards sweeps with dread ineffable,Resistless, borne along by evil blast,Woe, woe, and woe again!How through my soul there darts the sting of pain,The memory of my crimes.And who can wonder that in such dire woesCHORUSThou mournest doubly, bearing twofold ills?Ah, friend,ŒDIP.Thou only keepest by me, faithful found,Nor dost the blind one slight.Woe, woe,For thou escap’st me not, I know thee well;Though all is dark, I still can hear thy voice.O man of fearful deeds, how couldst thou bearCHORUSThine eyes to outrage? What power stirred thee to it?Apollo! oh, my friends, the God, Apollo!ŒDIP.Who worketh all my woes—yes, all my woes.No human hand but mine has done this deed.What need for me to see,When nothing’s left that’s sweet to look upon?Too truly dost thou speak the thing that is.CHORUSYea, what remains to see,ŒDIP.Or what to love, or hear,With any touch of joy?Lead me away, my friends, with utmost speed,Lead me away, the foul polluted one,Of all men most accursed,Most hateful to the Gods.Ah, wretched one, alike in soul and doom,CHORUSWould that my eyes had never known thy face!Ill fate be his who loosed the fetters sharp,ŒDIP.That ate into my flesh,And freed me from the doom of death,And saved me—thankless boon!Ah! had I died but then,Nor to my friends nor me had been such woe.That I, too, vainly wish!CHORUSYes; then I had not beenŒDIP.My father’s murderer:Nor had men pointed to me as the manWedded with her who bore him.But now all god-deserted, born in sins,In incest joined with her who gave me birth;Yea, if there be an evil worse than all,It falls on Œdipus!I may not call thy acts or counsels good,CHORUSFor better wert thou dead than living blind.Persuade me not, nor counsel give to showŒDIP.That what I did was not the best to do.I know not how, on entering Hades dark,To look for my own father or my mother,Crimes worse than deadly done against them both.And though my children’s face was sweet to seeWith their growth growing, yet these eyes no moreThat sight shall see, nor citadel, nor tower,Nor sacred shrines of Gods whence I, who stoodMost honoured one in Thebes, myself have banished,Commanding all to thrust the godless forth,Him whom the Gods do show accursed, the stockOf Laius old. And could I dare to look,Such dire pollution fixing on myself,And meet them face to face? Not so, not so.Yea, if I could but stop the stream of sound,And dam mine ears against it, I would do it,Closing each wretched sense that I might liveBoth blind, and hearing nothing, Sweet ’twould beTo keep the soul beyond the reach of ills.Why, O Kithæron, didst thou shelter me,Nor kill me out of hand? I had not shown,In that case, all men whence I drew my birth.O Polybus, and Corinth, and the homeI thought was mine, how strange a growth ye reared,All fair outside, all rotten at the core;For vile I stand, descended from the vile.Ye threefold roads and thickets half concealed,The hedge, the narrow pass where three ways meet,Which at my hands did drink my father’s blood,Remember ye what deeds I did in you;What, hither come, I did?—the marriage ritesThat gave me birth, and then, commingling all,In horrible confusion, showed in oneA father, brother, son, all kindreds mixed,Mother, and wife, and daughter, hateful names,All foulest deeds that men have ever done.But, since, where deeds are evil, speech is wrong,With utmost speed, by all the Gods, or hide,Or take my life, or cast me in the sea,Where nevermore your eyes may look on me.Come, scorn ye not to touch my misery,But hearken; fear ye not; no soul but ICan bear the burden of my countless ills.The man for what thou need’st is come in time,CHORUSCreon, to counsel and to act, for nowHe in thy place is left our only guide.Ah, me! what language shall I hold to him,ŒDIP.What trust at his hands claim? In all the pastI showed myself to him most vile and base.I have not come, O Œdipus, to scorn,

C

EnterREON

CREON.Nor to reproach thee for thy former crimes;But ye, if ye have lost your sense of shameFor mortal men, yet reverence the lightOf him, our King, the Sun-God, source of life,Nor sight so foul expose unveiled to view,Which neither earth, nor shower from heaven nor light,Can see and welcome. But with utmost speedConvey him in; for nearest kin aloneCan meetly see and hear their kindred’s ills.Oh, by the Gods! since thou, beyond my hopes,ŒDIP.Dost come all noble unto me all base,In one thing hearken. For thy good I ask.And what request seek’st thou so wistfully?CREON.Cast me with all thy speed from out this land,ŒDIP.Where nevermore a man may look on me!Be sure I would have done so, but I wishedCREON.To learn what now the God will bid us do.The oracle was surely clear enoughŒDIP.That I, the parricide, the pest, should die.So ran the words. But in our present needCREON.’Tis better to learn surely what to do.And will ye ask for one so vile as I?ŒDIP.Yea, now thou, too, wouldst trust the voice of God.CREON.And this I charge thee, yea, and supplicate,ŒDIP.For her within, provide what tomb thou wilt,For for thine own most meetly thou wilt care;But never let this city of my fathersBe sentenced to receive me as its guest;But suffer me on yon lone hills to dwell,Where stands Kithæron, chosen as my tombWhile still I lived, by mother and by sire,That I may die by those who sought to kill.And yet this much I know, that no disease,Nor aught else could have killed me; ne’er from deathHad I been saved but for this destined doom.But for our fate, whatever comes may come:And for my boys, O Creon, lay no chargeOf them upon me. They are grown, nor need,Where’er they be, feel lack of means to live.But for my two poor girls, all desolate,To whom their table never brought a mealWithout my presence, but whate’er I touchedThey still partook of with me; these I care for.Yea, let me touch them with my hands, and weepTo them my sorrows. Grant it, O my prince,O born of noble nature!Could I but touch them with my hands, I feelStill I should have them mine, as when I saw.What say I? What is this?

A and I

EnterNTIGONESMENE

Do I not hear, ye Gods, their dear, loved tones,Broken with sobs, and Creon, pitying me,Hath sent the dearest of my children to me?Is it not so?It is so. I am he who gives thee this,CREON.Knowing the joy thou hadst in them of old.Good luck have thou! And may the powers on highŒDIP.Guard thy path better than they guarded mine!Where are ye, O my children? Come, oh, comeTo these your brother’s hands, which but now toreYour father’s eyes, that once were bright to see,Who, O my children, blind and knowing naught,Became your father—how, I may not tell.I weep for you, though sight is mine no more,Picturing in mind the sad and dreary lifeWhich waits you in the world in years to come;For to what friendly gatherings will ye go,Or festive joys, from whence, for stately showOnce yours, ye shall not home return in tears?And when ye come to marriageable age,Who is there, O my children, rash enoughTo make his own the shame that then will fallOn those who bore me, and on you as well?What evil fails us here? Your father killedHis father, and was wed in incest foulWith her who bore him, and ye owe your birthTo her who gave him his. Such shame as thisWill men lay on you, and who then will dareTo make you his in marriage? None, not one,My children! but ye needs must waste away,Unwedded, childless, Thou, Menœkeus’ son,Since thou alone art left a father to them(For we, their parents, perish utterly),Suffer them not to wander husbandless,Nor let thy kindred beg their daily bread;But look on them with pity, seeing themAt their age, but for thee, deprived of all.O noble soul, I pray thee, touch my handIn token of consent. And ye, my girls,Had ye the minds to hearken I would fainGive ye much counsel. As it is, pray for meTo live where’er is meet; and for yourselvesA brighter life than his ye call your sire.Enough of tears and words. Go thou within.CREON.I needs must yield, however, hard it be.ŒDIP.In their right season all things prospect best.CREON.Know’st thou my wish?ŒDIP.Speak and I then shall hear.CREON.That thou shouldst send me far away from home.ŒDIP.Thou askest what the Gods alone can give.CREON.And yet I go most hated of the Gods.ŒDIP.And therefore it may chance thou gain’st thy wish.CREON.And dost thou promise, then, to grant it me?ŒDIP.I am not wont to utter idle words.CREON.Lead me, then, hence.ŒDIP.Go thou, but leave the girls.CREON.Ah, take them not from me!ŒDIP.Thou must not thinkCREON.To have thy way in all things all thy life.Thou hadst it once, yet went it ill with thee.Ye men of Thebes, behold this Œdipus,CHORUSWho knew the famous riddle and was noblest,Who envied no one’s fortune and success.And, lo,! in what a sea of direst woeHe now is plunged. From hence the lesson draw,To reckon no man happy till ye seeThe closing day; until he pass the bournWhich severs life from death, unscathed by woe.

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