John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Let him tell it in groans, though he bend with the load,

  Though he burst with the weight of the terrible god.

  Tir. The wretch, who shed the blood of old Labdacides,

  Lives, and is great;

  But cruel greatness ne’er was long.

  The first of Laius’ blood his life did seize,

  And urged his fate,

  Which else had lasting been and strong.

  The wretch, who Laius killed, must bleed or fly;

  Or Thebes, consumed with plagues, in ruins lie.

  Œdip. The first of Laius’ blood! pronounce the person;

  May the god roar from thy prophetic mouth,

  That even the dead may start up, to behold;

  Name him, I say, that most accursed wretch,

  For, by the stars, he dies!

  Speak, I command thee;

  By Phœbus, speak; for sudden death’s his doom:

  Here shall he fall, bleed on this very spot;

  His name, I charge thee once more, speak.

  Tir. ’Tis lost,

  Like what we think can never shun remembrance;

  Yet of a sudden’s gone beyond the clouds.

  Œdip. Fetch it from thence; I’ll have’t, wheree’er it be.

  Cre. Let me entreat you, sacred sir, be calm,

  And Creon shall point out the great offender.

  ’Tis true, respect of nature might enjoin

  Me silence, at another time; but, oh,

  Much more the power of my eternal love!

  That, that should strike me dumb; yet Thebes, my country —

  I’ll break through all, to succour thee, poor city!

  O, I must speak.

  Œdip. Speak then, if aught thou knowest,

  As much thou seem’st to know, — delay no longer.

  Cre. O beauty! O illustrious, royal maid!

  To whom my vows were ever paid, till now;

  And with such modest, chaste, and pure affection,

  The coldest nymph might read’em without blushing;

  Art thou the murdress, then, of wretched Laius?

  And I, must I accuse thee! O my tears!

  Why will you fall in so abhorred a cause?

  But that thy beauteous, barbarous hand destroyed

  Thy father, (O monstrous act!) both gods

  And men at once take notice.

  Œdip. Eurydice!

  Eur. Traitor, go on; I scorn thy little malice;

  And knowing more my perfect innocence,

  Than gods and men, then how much more than thee,

  Who art their opposite, and formed a liar,

  I thus disdain thee! Thou once didst talk of love;

  Because I hate thy love,

  Thou dost accuse me.

  Adr. Villain, inglorious villain,

  And traitor, doubly damned, who durst blaspheme

  The spotless virtue of the brightest beauty;

  Thou diest: Nor shall the sacred majesty, [Draws and wounds him.

  That guards this place, preserve thee from my rage.

  Œdip. Disarm them both! — Prince, I shall make you know,

  That, I can tame you twice. Guards, seize him.

  Adr. Sir,

  I must acknowledge, in another cause

  Repentance might abash me; but I glory

  In this, and smile to see the traitor’s blood.

  Œdip. Creon, you shall be satisfied at full.

  Cre. My hurt is nothing, sir; but I appeal

  To wise Tiresias, if my accusation

  Be not most true. The first of Laius’ blood

  Gave him his death. Is there a prince before her?

  Then she is faultless, and I ask her pardon.

  And may this blood ne’er cease to drop, O Thebes,

  If pity of thy sufferings did not move me,

  To shew the cure which heaven itself prescribed.

  Eur. Yes, Thebans, I will die to save your lives.

  More willingly than you can wish my fate;

  But let this good, this wise, this holy man,

  Pronounce my sentence: For to fall by him,

  By the vile breath of that prodigious villain,

  Would sink my soul, though I should die a martyr.

  Adr. Unhand me, slaves. — O mightiest of kings,

  See at your feet a prince not used to kneel;

  Touch not Eurydice, by all the gods,

  As you would save your Thebes, but take my life:

  For should she perish, heaven would heap plagues on plagues,

  Rain sulphur down, hurl kindled bolts

  Upon your guilty heads.

  Cre. You turn to gallantry, what is but justice;

  Proof will be easy made. Adrastus was

  The robber, who bereft the unhappy king

  Of life; because he flatly had denied

  To make so poor a prince his son-in-law;

  Therefore ‘twere fit that both should perish.

  1 Theb. Both, let both die.

  All Theb. Both, both; let them die.

  Œdip. Hence, you wild herd! For your ringleader here,

  He shall be made example. Hæmon, take him.

  Theb. Mercy, O mercy!

  Œdip. Mutiny in my presence!

  Hence, let me see that busy face no more.

  Tir. Thebans, what madness makes you drunk with rage?

  Enough of guilty death’s already acted:

  Fierce Creon has accused Eurydice,

  With prince Adrastus; which the god reproves

  By inward checks, and leaves their fates in doubt.

  Œdip. Therefore instruct us what remains to do,

  Or suffer; for I feel a sleep like death

  Upon me, and I sigh to be at rest.

  Tir. Since that the powers divine refuse to clear

  The mystic deed, I’ll to the grove of furies;

  There I can force the infernal gods to shew

  Their horrid forms; each trembling ghost shall rise,

  And leave their grisly king without a waiter.

  For prince Adrastus and Eurydice,

  My life’s engaged, I’ll guard them in the fane,

  ‘Till the dark mysteries of hell are done.

  Follow me, princes; Thebans, all to rest.

  O, Œdipus, to-morrow — but no more.

  If that thy wakeful genius will permit,

  Indulge thy brain this night with softer slumbers:

  To-morrow, O to-morrow! — Sleep, my son;

  And in prophetic dreams thy fate be shown. [Exeunt Tir. Adr. Eur. Man. and Theb.

  Manent Œdipus, Jocasta, Creon, Pyracmon, Hæmon, and Alcander.

  Œdip. To bed, my fair, my dear, my best Jocasta.

  After the toils of war, ’tis wondrous strange

  Our loves should thus be dashed. One moment’s thought,

  And I’ll approach the arms of my beloved.

  Joc. Consume whole years in care, so now and then

  I may have leave to feed my famished eyes

  With one short passing glance, and sigh my vows:

  This, and no more, my lord, is all the passion

  Of languishing Jocasta.[Exit.

  Œdip. Thou softest, sweetest of the world! good night. —

  Nay, she is beauteous too; yet, mighty love!

  I never offered to obey thy laws,

  But an unusual chillness came upon me;

  An unknown hand still checked my forward joy,

  Dashed me with blushes, though no light was near;

  That even the act became a violation.

  Pyr. He’s strangely thoughtful.

  Œdip. Hark! who was that? Ha! Creon, didst thou call me?

  Cre. Not I, my gracious lord, nor any here.

  Œdip. That’s strange! methought I heard a doleful voice

  Cry, Œdipus. — The prophet bade me sleep.

  He talked of dreams, and visions, and to-morrow!

  I’ll muse no more; come what will, or can,<
br />
  My thoughts are clearer than unclouded stars;

  And with those thoughts I’ll rest. Creon, good-night. [Exit with Hæm.

  Cre. Sleep seal your eyes up, sir, — eternal sleep!

  But if he sleep and wake again, O all

  Tormenting dreams, wild horrors of the night,

  And hags of fancy, wing him through the air:

  From precipices hurl him headlong down,

  Charybdis roar, and death be set before him!

  Alc. Your curses have already taken effect,

  For he looks very sad.

  Cre. May he be rooted, where he stands, for ever;

  His eye-balls never move, brows be unbent,

  His blood, his entrails, liver, heart, and bowels,

  Be blacker than the place I wish him, hell.

  Pyr. No more; you tear yourself, but vex not him.

  Methinks ‘twere brave this night to force the temple,

  While blind Tiresias conjures up the fiends,

  And pass the time with nice Eurydice.

  Alc. Try promises and threats, and if all fail,

  Since hell’s broke loose, why should not you be mad?

  Ravish, and leave her dead with her Adrastus.

  Cre. Were the globe mine, I’d give a province hourly

  For such another thought. — Lust and revenge!

  To stab at once the only man I hate,

  And to enjoy the woman whom I love!

  I ask no more of my auspicious stars,

  The rest as fortune please; so but this night

  She play me fair, why, let her turn for ever.

  Enter Hæmon.

  Hæm. My lord, the troubled king is gone to rest;

  Yet, ere he slept, commanded me to clear

  The antichambers; none must dare be near him.

  Cre. Hæmon, you do your duty;[Thunder.

  And we obey. — The night grows yet more dreadful!

  ’Tis just that all retire to their devotions.

  The gods are angry; but to-morrow’s dawn,

  If prophets do not lie, will make all clear.

  As they go off, Œdipus enters, walking asleep in his shirt, with a dagger in his right hand, and a taper in his left.

  Œdip. O, my Jocasta! ’tis for this, the wet

  Starved soldier lies on the cold ground;

  For this, he bears the storms

  Of winter camps, and freezes in his arms;

  To be thus circled, to be thus embraced.

  That I could hold thee ever! — Ha! where art thou?

  What means this melancholy light, that seems

  The gloom of glowing embers?

  The curtain’s drawn; and see she’s here again!

  Jocasta? Ha! what, fallen asleep so soon?

  How fares my love? this taper will inform me. —

  Ha! Lightning blast me, thunder

  Rivet me ever to Prometheus’ rock,

  And vultures gnaw out my incestuous heart! —

  By all the gods, my mother Merope!

  My sword! a dagger! ha, who waits there? Slaves,

  My sword! — What, Hæmon, dar’st thou, villain, stop me?

  With thy own poniard perish. — Ha! who’s this?

  Or is’t a change of death? By all my honours,

  New murder; thou hast slain old Polybus:

  Incest and parricide, — thy father’s murderer!

  Out, thou infernal flame! — Now all is dark,

  All blind and dismal, most triumphant mischief!

  And now, while thus I stalk about the room,

  I challenge Fate to find another wretch

  Like Œdipus![Thunder, &c.

  Enter Jocasta attended, with Lights, in a Night-gown.

  Œdip. Night, horror, death, confusion, hell, and furies!

  Where am I? — O, Jocasta, let me hold thee,

  Thus to my bosom! ages let me grasp thee!

  All that the hardest-tempered weathered flesh,

  With fiercest human spirit inspired, can dare,

  Or do, I dare; but, oh you powers, this was,

  By infinite degrees, too much for man.

  Methinks my deafened ears

  Are burst; my eyes, as if they had been knocked

  By some tempestuous hand, shoot flashing fire; —

  That sleep should do this!

  Joc. Then my fears were true.

  Methought I heard your voice, — and yet I doubted, —

  Now roaring like the ocean, when the winds

  Fight with the waves; now, in a still small tone

  Your dying accents fell, as wrecking ships,

  After the dreadful yell, sink murmuring down,

  And bubble up a noise.

  Œdip. Trust me, thou fairest, best of all thy kind,

  None e’er in dreams was tortured so before.

  Yet what most shocks the niceness of my temper,

  Even far beyond the killing of my father,

  And my own death, is, that this horrid sleep

  Dashed my sick fancy with an act of incest:

  I dreamt, Jocasta, that thou wert my mother;

  Which, though impossible, so damps my spirits,

  That I could do a mischief on myself,

  Lest I should sleep, and dream the like again.

  Joc. O Œdipus, too well I understand you!

  I know the wrath of heaven, the care of Thebes,

  The cries of its inhabitants, war’s toils,

  And thousand other labours of the state,

  Are all referred to you, and ought to take you

  For ever from Jocasta.

  Œdip. Life of my life, and treasure of my soul,

  Heaven knows I love thee.

  Joc. O, you think me vile,

  And of an inclination so ignoble,

  That I must hide me from your eyes for ever.

  Be witness, gods, and strike Jocasta dead,

  If an immodest thought, or low desire,

  Inflamed my breast, since first our loves were lighted.

  Œdip. O rise, and add not, by thy cruel kindness,

  A grief more sensible than all my torments.

  Thou thinkest my dreams are forged; but by thyself,

  The greatest oath, I swear, they are most true;

  But, be they what they will, I here dismiss them.

  Begone, chimeras, to your mother clouds!

  Is there a fault in us? Have we not searched

  The womb of heaven, examined all the entrails

  Of birds and beasts, and tired the prophet’s art?

  Yet what avails? He, and the gods together,

  Seem, like physicians, at a loss to help us;

  Therefore, like wretches that have lingered long,

  We’ll snatch the strongest cordial of our love;

  To bed, my fair.

  Ghost. [Within.] Œdipus!

  Œdip. Ha! who calls?

  Didst thou not hear a voice?

  Joc. Alas! I did.

  Ghost. Jocasta!

  Joc. O my love, my lord, support me!

  Œdip. Call louder, till you burst your airy forms! —

  Rest on my hand. Thus, armed with innocence,

  I’ll face these babbling dæmons of the air;

  In spite of ghosts, I’ll on.

  Though round my bed the furies plant their charms,

  I’ll break them, with Jocasta in my arms;

  Clasped in the folds of love, I’ll wait my doom;

  And act my joys, though thunder shake the room.[Exeunt.

  ACT III.

  SCENE I. — A dark Grove.

  Enter Creon and Diocles.

  Cre. ’Tis better not to be, than be unhappy.

  Dioc. What mean you by these words?

  Cre. ’Tis better not to be, than to be Creon.

  A thinking soul is punishment enough;

  But when ’tis great, like mine, and wretched too,

  Then every thought draws blood.

  Dioc. You
are not wretched.

  Cre. I am: my soul’s ill married to my body.

  I would be young, be handsome, be beloved:

  Could I but breathe myself into Adrastus! —

  Dioc. You rave; call home your thoughts.

  Cre. I pr’ythee let my soul take air a while;

  Were she in Œdipus, I were a king;

  Then I had killed a monster, gained a battle,

  And had my rival prisoner; brave, brave actions!

  Why have not I done these?

  Dioc. Your fortune hindered.

  Cre. There’s it; I have a soul to do them all:

  But fortune will have nothing done that’s great,

  But by young handsome fools; body and brawn

  Do all her work: Hercules was a fool,

  And straight grew famous; a mad boist’rous fool,

  Nay worse, a woman’s fool;

  Fool is the stuff, of which heaven makes a hero.

  Dioc. A serpent ne’er becomes a flying dragon,

  Till he has eat a serpent.

  Cre. Goes it there?

  I understand thee; I must kill Adrastus.

  Dioc. Or not enjoy your mistress:

  Eurydice and he are prisoners here,

  But will not long be so: This tell-tale ghost

  Perhaps will clear ‘em both.

  Cre. Well: ’tis resolved.

  Dioc. The princess walks this way;

  You must not meet her,

  Till this be done.

  Cre. I must.

  Dioc. She hates your sight;

  And more, since you accused her.

  Cre. Urge it not.

  I cannot stay to tell thee my design;

  For she’s too near.

  Enter Eurydice.

  How, madam, were your thoughts employed?

  Eur. On death, and thee.

  Cre. Then were they not well sorted: Life and me

  Had been the better match.

  Eur. No, I was thinking

  On two the most detested things in nature:

  And they are death and thee.

  Cre. The thought of death to one near death is dreadful!

  O ’tis a fearful thing to be no more;

  Or, if to be, to wander after death;

  To walk as spirits do, in brakes all day;

  And when the darkness comes, to glide in paths

  That lead to graves; and in the silent vault,

  Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o’er it,

  Striving to enter your forbidden corps,

  And often, often, vainly breathe your ghost

  Into your lifeless lips;

  Then, like a lone benighted traveller,

  Shut out from lodging, shall your groans be answered

  By whistling winds, whose every blast will shake

  Your tender form to atoms.

  Eur. Must I be this thin being? and thus wander?

  No quiet after death!

  Cre. None: You must leave