Or my poor mother, when against them both

I have sinned sins, worse than a halter’s meed.

Or do you think that children were a sight

Delectable for me to gaze at, born

As they were born? Never with eyes of mine!

No, nor the city, nor the citadel,

Nor consecrated shrines of deities,

From which, to my most utter misery,

I, of all other men in Thebes the man

Most bravely nurtured, cut myself away,

And of my own mouth dictated to all

To thrust out me, the impious—me, declared

Abominable of Heaven, and Laius’ son.

Was I, who in myself made evident

So dark a stain, with unaverted eyes

To look on these? That least of all! Nay rather,

If there were any way to choke the fount

Of hearing, through my ears, I would have tried

To seal up all this miserable frame

And live blind, deaf to all things; sweet it were

To dwell in fancy, out of reach of pain.

—Cithaeron! wherefore didst thou harbour me!

Why not at once have slain me? Never then

Had I displayed before the face of men

Who and from whom I am! O Polybus,

And Corinth, and the old paternal roof

I once called mine, with what thin film of honour,

Corruption over-skinned, you fostered me,

Found ill myself, and from ill parents, now!

O you, the three roads, and the lonely brake,

The copse, and pass at the divided way,

Which at my hands drank blood that was my own—

My father’s—do you keep in memory

What in your sight I did, and how again

I wrought, when I came hither? Wedlock, wedlock,

You gave me being, you raised up seed again

To the same lineage, and exhibited

In one incestuous flesh son—brother—sire,

Bride, wife and mother; and all ghastliest deeds

Wrought among men! But O, ill done, ill worded!

In Heaven’s name hide me with all speed away,

Or slay me, or send adrift upon some sea

Where you may look on me no longer! Come,

Touch, if you will, a miserable man;

Pray you, fear nothing; for my misery

No mortal but myself can underbear.

1 SENATOR

Creon is at hand; he is the man you need,

Who must decide and do; being, after you,

The sole protector left us, for the land.

OEDIPUS

Ah Heaven, what language shall I hold to him?

What rightful credit will appear in me?

For I have been found wholly in the wrong

In all that passed between us heretofore!

Enter CREON.

CREON

Not as a mocker come I, Oedipus,

Nor to reproach for any former pain.

But you—even if you reverence no more

Children of men,—at least so far revere

The royal Sun-god’s all-sustaining fire,

Not to parade, thus flagrant, such a sore

As neither earth nor day can tolerate,

Nor dew from Heaven! Take him in instantly!

That kindred only should behold and hear

The griefs of kin, fits best with decency.

OEDIPUS

In Heaven’s name, seeing that you transported me