John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Œdip. A young stork,

  That bore his aged parent on his back;

  Till weary with the weight, he shook him off,

  And pecked out both his eyes.

  Adr. Oh, Œdipus!

  Eur. Oh, wretched Œdipus!

  Tir. Oh, fatal king!

  Œdip. What mean these exclamations on my name?

  I thank the gods, no secret thoughts reproach me:

  No: I dare challenge heaven to turn me outward,

  And shake my soul quite empty in your sight.

  Then wonder not that I can bear unmoved

  These fixed regards, and silent threats of eyes.

  A generous fierceness dwells with innocence;

  And conscious virtue is allowed some pride.

  Tir. Thou knowest not what thou sayest.

  Œdip. What mutters he? tell me, Eurydice:

  Thou shak’st: Thy soul’s a woman; — speak, Adrastus,

  And boldly, as thou met’st my arms in fight: —

  Dar’st thou not speak? why then ’tis bad indeed. —

  Tiresias, thee I summon by thy priesthood,

  Tell me what news from hell; where Laius points,

  And whose the guilty head!

  Tir. Let me not answer.

  Œdip. Be dumb then, and betray thy native soil

  To farther plagues.

  Tir. I dare not name him to thee.

  Œdip. Dar’st thou converse with hell, and canst thou fear

  An human name?

  Tir. Urge me no more to tell a thing, which, known,

  Would make thee more unhappy: ‘Twill be found,

  Though I am silent.

  Œdip. Old and obstinate! Then thou thyself

  Art author or accomplice of this murther,

  And shun’st the justice, which by public ban

  Thou hast incurred.

  Tir. O, if the guilt were mine,

  It were not half so great: Know, wretched man,

  Thou only, thou art guilty! thy own curse

  Falls heavy on thyself.

  Œdip. Speak this again:

  But speak it to the winds, when they are loudest,

  Or to the raging seas; they’ll hear as soon,

  And sooner will believe.

  Tir. Then hear me, heaven!

  For, blushing, thou hast seen it; hear me, earth,

  Whose hollow womb could not contain this murder,

  But sent it back to light! And thou, hell, hear me!

  Whose own black seal has ‘firmed this horrid truth,

  Œdipus murthered Laius!

  Œdip. Rot the tongue,

  And blasted be the mouth that spoke that lie!

  Thou blind of sight, but thou more blind of soul!

  Tir. Thy parents thought not so.

  Œdip. Who were my parents?

  Tir. Thou shalt know too soon.

  Œdip. Why seek I truth from thee?

  The smiles of courtiers, and the harlot’s tears,

  The tradesman’s oaths, and mourning of an heir,

  Are truths to what priests tell.

  O why has priest-hood privilege to lie,

  And yet to be believed! — thy age protects thee.

  Tir. Thou canst not kill me; ’tis not in thy fate,

  As ’twas to kill thy father, wed thy mother,

  And beget sons, thy brothers.

  Œdip. Riddles, riddles!

  Tir. Thou art thyself a riddle; a perplext

  Obscure enigma, which when thou unty’st,

  Thou shalt be found and lost.

  Œdip. Impossible! —

  Adrastus, speak; and, as thou art a king,

  Whose royal word is sacred, clear my fame.

  Adr. Would I could!

  Œdip. Ha, wilt thou not? Can that plebeian vice

  Of lying mount to kings? Can they be tainted?

  Then truth is lost on earth.

  Cre. The cheat’s too gross.

  Adrastus is his oracle, and he,

  The pious juggler, but Adrastus’ organ.

  Œdip. ’Tis plain, the priest’s suborned to free the prisoner.

  Cre. And turn the guilt, on you.

  Œdip. O, honest Creon, how hast thou been belied!

  Eur. Hear me.

  Cre. She’s bribed to save her lover’s life.

  Adr. If, Œdipus, thou think’st —

  Cre. Hear him not speak.

  Adr. Then hear these holy men.

  Cre. Priests, priests; all bribed, all priests.

  Œdip. Adrastus, I have found thee:

  The malice of a vanquished man has seized thee!

  Adr. If envy and not truth —

  Œdip. I’ll hear no more: Away with him. [Hæmon takes him off by force: Creon and Eurydice follow.

  [To Tir.] Why stand’st thou here, impostor?

  So old, and yet so wicked, — Lie for gain?

  And gain so short as age can promise thee!

  Tir. So short a time as I have yet to live,

  Exceeds thy ‘pointed hour; — remember Laius!

  No more; if e’er we meet again, ‘twill be

  In mutual darkness; we shall feel before us

  To reach each other’s hand; — remember Laius! [Exit Tiresias: Priests follow.

  Œdipus solus.

  Remember Laius! that’s the burden still:

  Murther and incest! but to hear them named

  My soul starts in me: The good sentinel

  Stands to her weapons, takes the first alarm

  To guard me from such crimes. — Did I kill Laius?

  Then I walked sleeping, in some frightful dream;

  My soul then stole my body out by night;

  And brought me back to bed ere morning-wake

  It cannot be even this remotest way,

  But some dark hint would justle forward now,

  And goad my memory. — Oh my Jocasta!

  Enter Jocasta.

  Joc. Why are you thus disturbed?

  Œdip. Why, would’st thou think it?

  No less than murder.

  Joc. Murder! what of murder?

  Œdip. Is murder then no more? add parricide,

  And incest; bear not these a frightful sound?

  Joc. Alas!

  Œdip. How poor a pity is alas,

  For two such crimes! — was Laius us’d to lie?

  Joc. Oh no: The most sincere, plain, honest man;

  One who abhorred a lie.

  Œdip. Then he has got that quality in hell.

  He charges me — but why accuse I him?

  I did not hear him speak it: They accuse me, —

  The priest, Adrastus and Eurydice, —

  Of murdering Laius! — Tell me, while I think on’t,

  Has old Tiresias practised long this trade?

  Joc. What trade?

  Œdip. Why, this foretelling trade.

  Joc. For many years.

  Œdip. Has he before this day accused me?

  Joc. Never.

  Œdip. Have you ere this inquired who did this murder?

  Joc. Often; but still in vain.

  Œdip. I am satisfied.

  Then ’tis an infant-lye; but one day old.

  The oracle takes place before the priest;

  The blood of Laius was to murder Laius:

  I’m not of Laius’ blood.

  Joc. Even oracles

  Are always doubtful, and are often forged:

  Laius had one, which never was fulfilled,

  Nor ever can be now.

  Œdip. And what foretold it?

  Joc. That he should have a son by me, foredoomed

  The murderer of his father: True, indeed,

  A son was born; but, to prevent that crime,

  The wretched infant of a guilty fate,

  Bored through his untried feet, and bound with cords,

  On a bleak mountain naked was exposed:

  The king himself lived many, many years,

  And foun
d a different fate; by robbers murdered,

  Where three ways met: Yet these are oracles,

  And this the faith we owe them.

  Œdip. Sayest thou, woman?

  By heaven, thou hast awakened somewhat in me,

  That shakes my very soul!

  Joc. What new disturbance?

  Œdip. Methought thou said’st — (or do I dream thou said’st it!)

  This murder was on Laius’ person done,

  Where three ways meet?

  Joc. So common fame reports.

  Œdip. Would it had lied!

  Joc. Why, good my lord?

  Œdip. No questions.

  ’Tis busy time with me; despatch mine first;

  Say where, where was it done!

  Joc. Mean you the murder?

  Œdip. Could’st thou not answer without naming murder?

  Joc. They say in Phocide; on the verge that parts it

  From Daulia, and from Delphos.

  Œdip. So! — How long? when happened this?

  Joc. Some little time before you came to Thebes.

  Œdip. What will the gods do with me!

  Joc. What means that thought?

  Œdip. Something: But ’tis not yet your turn to ask:

  How old was Laius, what his shape, his stature,

  His action, and his mien? quick, quick, your answer! —

  Joc. Big made he was, and tall: His port was fierce,

  Erect his countenance: Manly majesty

  Sate in his front, and darted from his eyes,

  Commanding all he viewed: His hair just grizzled,

  As in a green old age: Bate but his years,

  You are his picture.

  Œdip. [Aside.] Pray heaven he drew me not! —

  Am I his picture?

  Joc. So I have often told you.

  Œdip. True, you have;

  Add that unto the rest: — How was the king

  Attended, when he travelled?

  Joc. By four servants:

  He went out private.

  Œdip. Well counted still: —

  One ‘scaped, I hear; what since became of him?

  Joc. When he beheld you first, as king in Thebes,

  He kneeled, and trembling begged I would dismiss him:

  He had my leave; and now he lives retired.

  Œdip. This man must be produced: he must, Jocasta.

  Joc. He shall — yet have I leave to ask you why?

  Œdip. Yes, you shall know: For where should I repose

  The anguish of my soul, but in your breast!

  I need not tell you Corinth claims my birth;

  My parents, Polybus and Merope,

  Two royal names; their only child am I.

  It happened once,— ’twas at a bridal feast, —

  One, warm with wine, told me I was a foundling,

  Not the king’s son; I, stung with this reproach,

  Struck him: My father heard of it: The man

  Was made ask pardon; and the business hushed.

  Joc. ’Twas somewhat odd.

  Œdip. And strangely it perplexed me.

  I stole away to Delphos, and implored

  The god, to tell my certain parentage.

  He bade me seek no farther:— ’Twas my fate

  To kill my father, and pollute his bed,

  By marrying her who bore me.

  Joc. Vain, vain oracles!

  Œdip. But yet they frighted me;

  I looked on Corinth as a place accurst,

  Resolved my destiny should wait in vain,

  And never catch me there.

  Joc. Too nice a fear.

  Œdip. Suspend your thoughts; and flatter not too soon.

  Just in the place you named, where three ways met.

  And near that time, five persons I encountered;

  One was too like, (heaven grant it prove not him!)

  Whom you describe for Laius: insolent,

  And fierce they were, as men who lived on spoil.

  I judged them robbers, and by force repelled

  The force they used: In short, four men I slew:

  The fifth upon his knees demanding life,

  My mercy gave it; — Bring me comfort now.

  If I slew Laius, what can be more wretched!

  From Thebes, and you, my curse has banished me:

  From Corinth, fate.

  Joc. Perplex not thus your mind.

  My husband fell by multitudes opprest;

  So Phorbas said: This band you chanced to meet:

  And murdered not my Laius, but revenged him.

  Œdip. There’s all my hope: Let Phorbas tell me this,

  And I shall live again. —

  To you, good gods, I make my last appeal;

  Or clear my virtue, or my crime reveal:

  If wandering in the maze of fate I run,

  And backward trod the paths I sought to shun,

  Impute my errors to your own decree;

  My hands are guilty, but my heart is free.[Exeunt.

  ACT IV.

  SCENE I.

  Enter Pyracmon and Creon.

  Pyr. Some business of import, that triumph wears,

  You seem to go with; nor is it hard to guess

  When you are pleased, by a malicious joy,

  Whose red and fiery beams cast through your visage

  A glowing pleasure. Sure you smile revenge,

  And I could gladly hear.

  Cre. Would’st thou believe!

  This giddy hair-brained king, whom old Tiresias

  Has thunder-struck with heavy accusation,

  Though conscious of no inward guilt, yet fears:

  He fears Jocasta, fears himself, his shadow;

  He fears the multitude; and, — which is worth

  An age of laughter, — out of all mankind,

  He chuses me to be his orator;

  Swears that Adrastus, and the lean-looked prophet,

  Are joint conspirators; and wished me to

  Appease the raving Thebans; which I swore

  To do.

  Pyr. A dangerous undertaking;

  Directly opposite to your own interest.

  Cre. No, dull Pyracmon; when I left his presence

  With all the wings, with which revenge could aid

  My flight, I gained the midst o’the city;

  There, standing on a pile of dead and dying,

  I to the mad and sickly multitude,

  With interrupting sobs, cry’d out, — O Thebes!

  O wretched Thebes, thy king, thy Œdipus,

  This barbarous stranger, this usurper, monster,

  Is by the oracle, the wise Tiresias,

  Proclaimed the murderer of thy royal Laius:

  Jocasta too, no longer now my sister,

  Is found complotter in the horrid deed.

  Here I renounce all tie of blood and nature,

  For thee, O Thebes, dear Thebes, poor bleeding Thebes! —

  And there I wept, and then the rabble howled.

  And roared, and with a thousand antic mouths

  Gabbled revenge! revenge was all the cry.

  Pyr. This cannot fail: I see you on the throne:

  And Œdipus cast out.

  Cre. Then strait came on

  Alcander, with a wild and bellowing crowd,

  Whom he had wrought; I whispered him to join.

  And head the forces while the heat was in them.

  So to the palace I returned, to meet

  The king, and greet him with another story. —

  But see, he enters.

  Enter Œdipus and Jocasta, attended.

  Œdip. Said you that Phorbas is returned, and yet

  Intreats he may return, without being asked

  Of aught concerning what we have discovered?

  Joc. He started when I told him your intent,

  Replying, what he knew of that affair

  Would give no satisfaction to the king;

  Then, falling on hi
s knees, begged, as for life,

  To be dismissed from court: He trembled too,

  As if convulsive death had seized upon him,

  And stammered in his abrupt prayer so wildly,

  That had he been the murderer of Laius,

  Guilt and distraction could not have shook him more.

  Œdip. By your description, sure as plagues and death

  Lay waste our Thebes, some deed that shuns the light

  Begot those fears; if thou respect’st my peace,

  Secure him, dear Jocasta; for my genius

  Shrinks at his name.

  Joc. Rather let him go:

  So my poor boding heart would have it be,

  Without a reason.

  Œdip. Hark, the Thebans come!

  Therefore retire: And, once more, if thou lovest me,

  Let Phorbas be retained.

  Joc. You shall, while I

  Have life, be still obeyed.

  In vain you sooth me with your soft endearments,

  And set the fairest countenance to view;

  Your gloomy eyes, my lord, betray a deadness

  And inward languishing: That oracle

  Eats like a subtle worm its venomed way,

  Preys on your heart, and rots the noble core,

  Howe’er the beauteous out-side shews so lovely.

  Œdip. O, thou wilt kill me with thy love’s excess!

  All, all is well; retire, the Thebans come.[Exit Joc.

  Ghost. Œdipus!

  Œdip. Ha! again that scream of woe!

  Thrice have I heard, thrice, since the morning dawned,

  It hollowed loud, as if my guardian spirit

  Called from some vaulted mansion, Œdipus!

  Or is it but the work of melancholy?

  When the sun sets, shadows, that shewed at noon

  But small, appear most long and terrible;

  So, when we think fate hovers o’er our heads,

  Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds;

  Owls, ravens, crickets seem the watch of death;

  Nature’s worst vermin scare her godlike sons;

  Echoes, the very leavings of a voice,

  Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves;

  Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus;

  While we fantastic dreamers heave and puff,

  And sweat with an imagination’s weight;

  As if, like Atlas, with these mortal shoulders

  We could sustain the burden of the world.[Creon comes forward.

  Cre. O, sacred sir, my royal lord —

  Œdip. What now?

  Thou seem’st affrighted at some dreadful action;

  Thy breath comes short, thy darted eyes are fixt

  On me for aid, as if thou wert pursued:

  I sent thee to the Thebans; speak thy wonder:

  Fear not; this palace is a sanctuary,

  The king himself’s thy guard.

  Cre. For me, alas,

  My life’s not worth a thought, when weighed with yours!