Oedipus King of Thebes Part 5

OEDIPUS.

'Fore G.o.d, I am in wrath; and speak I will, Nor stint what I see clear. 'Twas thou, 'twas thou, Didst plan this murder; aye, and, save the blow, Wrought it.--I know thou art blind; else I could swear Thou, and thou only, art the murderer.

TIRESIAS (_returning_).

So?--I command thee by thine own word's power, To stand accurst, and never from this hour

[Sidenote: vv. 352-363]

Speak word to me, nor yet to these who ring Thy throne. Thou art thyself the unclean thing.

OEDIPUS.

Thou front of bra.s.s, to fling out injury So wild! Dost think to bate me and go free?

TIRESIAS.

I am free. The strong truth is in this heart.

OEDIPUS.

What prompted thee? I swear 'twas not thine art.

TIRESIAS.

'Twas thou. I spoke not, save for thy command.

OEDIPUS.

Spoke what? What was it? Let me understand.

TIRESIAS.

Dost tempt me? Were my words before not plain!

OEDIPUS.

Scarce thy full meaning. Speak the words again.

TIRESIAS.

Thou seek'st this man of blood: Thyself art he.

OEDIPUS.

'Twill cost thee dear, twice to have stabbed at me!

[Sidenote: vv. 364-377]

TIRESIAS.

Shall I say more, to see thee rage again?

OEDIPUS.

Oh, take thy fill of speech: 'twill all be vain.

TIRESIAS.

Thou livest with those near to thee in shame Most deadly, seeing not thyself nor them.

OEDIPUS.

Thou think'st 'twill help thee, thus to speak and speak?

TIRESIAS.

Surely, until the strength of Truth be weak.

OEDIPUS.

'Tis weak to none save thee. Thou hast no part In truth, thou blind man, blind eyes, ears and heart.

TIRESIAS.

More blind, more sad thy words of scorn, which none Who hears but shall cast back on thee: soon, soon.

OEDIPUS.

Thou sp.a.w.n of Night, not I nor any free And seeing man would hurt a thing like thee.

TIRESIAS.

G.o.d is enough.--'Tis not my doom to fall By thee. He knows and shall accomplish all.

[Sidenote: vv. 378-402]

OEDIPUS (_with a flash of discovery_).

Ha! Creon!--Is it his or thine, this plot?

TIRESIAS.

'Tis thyself hates thee. Creon hates thee not.

OEDIPUS.

O wealth and majesty, O conquering skill That carved life's rebel pathways to my will, What is your heart but bitterness, if now For this poor crown Thebes bound upon my brow, A gift, a thing I sought not--for this crown Creon the stern and true, Creon mine own Comrade, comes creeping in the dark to ban And slay me; sending first this magic-man And schemer, this false beggar-priest, whose eye Is bright for gold and blind for prophecy?

Speak, thou. When hast thou ever shown thee strong For aid? The She-Wolf of the woven song Came, and thy art could find no word, no breath, To save thy people from her riddling death.