Stranger.

Being wife to such a man, happy indeed

And ringed with happy faces may she live!

Jocasta.

To one so fair of speech may the Gods give

Like blessing, courteous stranger; ’tis thy due.

But say what leads thee hither. Can we do

Thy wish in aught, or hast thou news to bring?

Stranger.

Good news, O Queen, for thee and for the King.

Jocasta.

What is it? And from what prince comest thou?

Stranger.

I come from Corinth.—And my tale, I trow,

Will give thee joy, yet haply also pain.

Jocasta.

What news can have that twofold power? Be plain.

Stranger.

’Tis spoke in Corinth that the gathering

Of folk will make thy lord our chosen King.

Jocasta.

How? Is old Polybus in power no more?

Stranger.

Death has a greater power. His reign is o’er.

Jocasta.

What say’st thou? Dead? … Oedipus’ father dead?

Stranger.

If I speak false, let me die in his stead.

Jocasta.

Ho, maiden! To our master! Hie thee fast

And tell this tale.

[The maiden goes.

Where stand ye at the last

Ye oracles of God? For many a year

Oedipus fled before that man, in fear

To slay him. And behold we find him thus

Slain by a chance death, not by Oedipus.

[Oedipus comes out from the Palace.

Oedipus.

O wife, O face I love to look upon,

Why call’st thou me from where I sat alone?

Jocasta.

Give ear, and ponder from what this man tells

How end these proud priests and their oracles.

Oedipus.

Whence comes he? And what word hath he for us?

Jocasta.

From Corinth; bearing news that Polybus

Thy father is no more. He has found his death.

Oedipus.

How?—Stranger, speak thyself. This that she saith …

Stranger.

Is sure. If that is the first news ye crave,

I tell thee, Polybus lieth in his grave.

Oedipus.

Not murdered? … How? Some passing of disease

Stranger.

A slight thing turns an old life to its peace.

Oedipus.

Poor father! … ’Tis by sickness he is dead?

Stranger.

The growing years lay heavy on his head.

Oedipus.

O wife, why then should man fear any more

The voice of Pytho’s dome, or cower before

These birds that shriek above us? They foretold

Me for my father’s murderer; and behold,

He lies in Corinth dead, and here am I

And never touched the sword. … Or did he die

In grief for me who left him? In that way

I may have wrought his death. … But come what may,

He sleepeth in his grave and with him all

This deadly seercraft, of no worth at all.

Jocasta.

Dear Lord, long since did I not show thee clear … ?