John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  But fly, my lord; fly as your life is sacred.

  Your fate is precious to your faithful Creon,

  Who therefore, on his knees, thus prostrate begs

  You would remove from Thebes, that vows your ruin.

  When I but offered at your innocence,

  They gathered stones, and menaced me with death,

  And drove me through the streets, with imprecations

  Against your sacred person, and those traitors

  Who justified your guilt, which cursed Tiresias

  Told, as from heaven, was cause of their destruction.

  Œdip. Rise, worthy Creon; haste and take our guard,

  Rank them in equal part upon the square,

  Then open every gate of this our palace,

  And let the torrent in. Hark, it comes.[Shout.

  I hear them roar: Begone, and break down all

  The dams, that would oppose their furious passage. [Exit Creon with Guards.

  Enter Adrastus, his sword drawn.

  Adr. Your city

  Is all in arms, all bent to your destruction:

  I heard but now, where I was close confined,

  A thundering shout, which made my jailors vanish,

  Cry, — fire the palace! where is the cruel king?

  Yet, by the infernal Gods, those awful powers

  That have accused you, which these ears have heard,

  And these eyes seen, I must believe you guiltless;

  For, since I knew the royal Œdipus,

  I have observed in all his acts such truth,

  And god-like clearness, that, to the last gush

  Of blood and spirits, I’ll defend his life,

  And here have sworn to perish by his side.

  Œdip. Be witness, Gods, how near this touches me. [Embracing him.

  O what, what recompence can glory make?

  Adr. Defend your innocence, speak like yourself,

  And awe the rebels with your dauntless virtue.

  But hark! the storm comes nearer.

  Œdip. Let it come.

  The force of majesty is never known

  But in a general wreck: Then, then is seen

  The difference ‘twixt a threshold and a throne.

  Enter Creon, Pyracmon, Alcander, Tiresias, Thebans.

  Alc. Where, where’s this cruel king? — Thebans, behold,

  There stands your plague, the ruin, desolation

  Of this unhappy — speak; shall I kill him?

  Or shall he be cast out to banishment?

  All Theb. To banishment, away with him!

  Œdip. Hence, you barbarians, to your slavish distance!

  Fix to the earth your sordid looks; for he,

  Who stirs, dares more than madmen, fiends, or furies.

  Who dares to face me, by the Gods, as well

  May brave the majesty of thundering Jove.

  Did I for this relieve you, when besieged

  By this fierce prince, when cooped within your walls,

  And to the very brink of fate reduced;

  When lean-jawed famine made more havock of you,

  Than does the plague? But I rejoice I know you,

  Know the base stuff that tempered your vile souls:

  The Gods be praised, I needed not your empire,

  Born to a greater, nobler, of my own;

  Nor shall the sceptre of the earth now win me

  To rule such brutes, so barbarous a people.

  Adr. Methinks, my lord, I see a sad repentance,

  A general consternation spread among them.

  Œdip. My reign is at an end; yet, ere I finish,

  I’ll do a justice that becomes a monarch;

  A monarch, who, in the midst of swords and javelins,

  Dares act as on his throne, encompast round

  With nations for his guard. Alcander, you

  Are nobly born, therefore shall lose your head:[Seizes him.

  Here, Hæmon, take him: but for this, and this,

  Let cords dispatch them. Hence, away with them!

  Tir. O sacred prince, pardon distracted Thebes,

  Pardon her, if she acts by heaven’s award;

  If that the infernal spirits have declared

  The depth of fate; and if our oracles

  May speak, O do not too severely deal!

  But let thy wretched Thebes at least complain.

  If thou art guilty, heaven will make it known;

  If innocent, then let Tiresias die.

  Œdip. I take thee at thy word. — Run, haste, and save Alcander:

  I swear, the prophet, or the king shall die.

  Be witness, all you Thebans, of my oath;

  And Phorbas be the umpire.

  Tir. I submit.[Trumpet sounds.

  Œdip. What mean those trumpets?

  Enter Hæmon with Alcander, &c.

  Hæm. From your native country,

  Great sir, the famed Ægeon is arrived,

  That renowned favourite of the king your father:

  He comes as an ambassador from Corinth,

  And sues for audience.

  Œdip. Haste, Hæmon, fly, and tell him that I burn

  To embrace him.

  Hæm. The queen, my lord, at present holds him

  In private conference; but behold her here.

  Enter Jocasta, Eurydice, &c.

  Joc. Hail, happy Œdipus, happiest of kings!

  Henceforth be blest, blest as thou canst desire;

  Sleep without fears the blackest nights away;

  Let furies haunt thy palace, thou shalt sleep

  Secure, thy slumbers shall be soft and gentle

  As infants’ dreams.

  Œdip. What does the soul of all my joys intend?

  And whither would this rapture?

  Joc. O, I could rave,

  Pull down those lying fanes, and burn that vault,

  From whence resounded those false oracles,

  That robbed my love of rest: If we must pray,

  Rear in the streets bright altars to the Gods,

  Let virgins’ hands adorn the sacrifice;

  And not a grey-beard forging priest come near,

  To pry into the bowels of the victim,

  And with his dotage mad the gaping world.

  But see, the oracle that I will trust,

  True as the Gods, and affable as men.

  Enter Ægeon. Kneels.

  Œdip. O, to my arms, welcome, my dear Ægeon;

  Ten thousand welcomes! O, my foster-father,

  Welcome as mercy to a man condemned!

  Welcome to me, as, to a sinking mariner,

  The lucky plank that bears him to the shore!

  But speak, O tell me what so mighty joy

  Is this thou bring’st, which so transports Jocasta?

  Joc. Peace, peace, Ægeon, let Jocasta tell him! —

  O that I could for ever charm, as now,

  My dearest Œdipus! Thy royal father,

  Polybus, king of Corinth, is no more.

  Œdip. Ha! can it be? Ægeon, answer me;

  And speak in short, what my Jocasta’s transport

  May over-do.

  Æge. Since in few words, my royal lord, you ask

  To know the truth, — king Polybus is dead.

  Œdip. O all you powers, is’t possible? what, dead!

  But that the tempest of my joy may rise

  By just degrees, and hit at last the stars,

  Say, how, how died he? ha! by sword, by fire,

  Or water? by assassinates, or poison? speak:

  Or did he languish under some disease?

  Æge. Of no distemper, of no blast he died,

  But fell like autumn-fruit that mellowed long;

  Even wondered at, because he dropt no sooner.

  Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years;

  Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more:

  Till, like a clock worn out with eating time,

  The wheels of w
eary life at last stood still.

  Œdip. O, let me press thee in my youthful arms,

  And smother thy old age in my embraces.

  Yes, Thebans, yes, Jocasta, yes, Adrastus,

  Old Polybus, the king my father’s dead!

  Fires shall be kindled in the midst of Thebes;

  In the midst of tumult, wars, and pestilence,

  I will rejoice for Polybus’s death.

  Know, be it known to the limits of the world;

  Yet farther, let it pass yon dazzling roof,

  The mansion of the Gods, and strike them deaf

  With everlasting peals of thundering joy.

  Tir. Fate! Nature! Fortune! what is all this world?

  Œdip. Now, dotard; now, thou blind old wizard prophet,

  Where are your boding ghosts, your altars now;

  Your birds of knowledge, that in dusky air

  Chatter futurity? And where are now

  Your oracles, that called me parricide?

  Is he not dead? deep laid in his monument?

  And was not I in Thebes when fate attacked him?

  Avaunt, begone, you vizors of the Gods!

  Were I as other sons, now I should weep;

  But, as I am, I have reason to rejoice:

  And will, though his cold shade should rise and blast me.

  O, for this death, let waters break their bounds;

  Rocks, valleys, hills, with splitting Io’s ring:

  Io, Jocasta, Io pæan sing!

  Tir. Who would not now conclude a happy end!

  But all fate’s turns are swift and unexpected.

  Æge. Your royal mother Merope, as if

  She had no soul since you forsook the land,

  Waves all the neighbouring princes that adore her.

  Œdip. Waves all the princes! poor heart! for what?

  O speak.

  Æge. She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty,

  Grows cold, even in the summer of her age,

  And, for your sake, has sworn to die unmarried.

  Œdip. How! for my sake, die and not marry! O

  My fit returns.

  Æge. This diamond, with a thousand kisses blest,

  With thousand sighs and wishes for your safety,

  She charged me give you, with the general homage

  Of our Corinthian lords.

  Œdip. There’s magic in it, take it from my sight;

  There’s not a beam it darts, but carries hell,

  Hot flashing lust, and necromantic incest:

  Take it from these sick eyes, oh hide it from me! —

  No, my Jocasta, though Thebes cast me out,

  While Merope’s alive, I’ll ne’er return.

  O, rather let me walk round the wide world

  A beggar, than accept a diadem

  On such abhorred conditions.

  Joc. You make, my lord, your own unhappiness,

  By these extravagant and needless fears.

  Œdip. Needless! O, all you Gods! By heaven, I would rather

  Embrue my arms, up to my very shoulders,

  In the dear entrails of the best of fathers,

  Than offer at the execrable act

  Of damned incest: therefore no more of her.

  Æge. And why, O sacred sir, if subjects may

  Presume to look into their monarch’s breast,

  Why should the chaste and spotless Merope

  Infuse such thoughts, as I must blush to name?

  Œdip. Because the god of Delphos did forewarn me,

  With thundering oracles.

  Æge. May I entreat to know them?

  Œdip. Yes, my Ægeon; but the sad remembrance

  Quite blasts my soul: See then the swelling priest!

  Methinks, I have his image now in view! —

  He mounts the tripos in a minute’s space,

  His clouded head knocks at the temple-roof;

  While from his mouth,

  These dismal words are heard:

  “Fly, wretch, whom fate has doomed thy father’s blood to spill,

  And with preposterous births thy mother’s womb to fill!”

  Æge. Is this the cause,

  Why you refuse the diadem of Corinth?

  Œdip. The cause! why, is it not a monstrous one!

  Æge. Great sir, you may return; and though you should

  Enjoy the queen, (which all the Gods forbid!)

  The act would prove no incest.

  Œdip. How, Ægeon?

  Though I enjoy my mother, not incestuous!

  Thou ravest, and so do I; and these all catch

  My madness; look, they’re dead with deep distraction:

  Not incest! what, not incest with my mother?

  Æge. My lord, queen Merope is not your mother.

  Œdip. Ha! did I hear thee right? not Merope

  My mother!

  Æge. Nor was Polybus your father.

  Œdip. Then all my days and nights must now be spent

  In curious search, to find out those dark parents

  Who gave me to the world; speak then, Ægeon.

  By all the Gods celestial and infernal,

  By all the ties of nature, blood and friendship,

  Conceal not from this racked despairing king,

  A point or smallest grain of what thou knowest:

  Speak then, O answer to my doubts directly,

  If royal Polybus was not my father,

  Why was I called his son?

  Æge. He from my arms

  Received you, as the fairest gift of nature.

  Not but you were adorned with all the riches

  That empire could bestow, in costly mantles,

  Upon its infant heir.

  Œdip. But was I made the heir of Corinth’s crown,

  Because Ægeon’s hands presented me?

  Æge. By my advice,

  Being past all hope of children,

  He took, embraced, and owned you for his son.

  Œdip. Perhaps I then am yours; instruct me, sir;

  If it be so, I’ll kneel and weep before you.

  With all the obedience of a penitent child,

  Imploring pardon.

  Kill me, if you please;

  I will not writhe my body at the wound,

  But sink upon your feet with a last sigh,

  And ask forgiveness with my dying hands.

  Æge. O rise, and call not to this aged cheek

  The little blood which should keep warm my heart;

  You are not mine, nor ought I to be blest

  With such a god-like offspring. Sir, I found you

  Upon the mount Cithæron.

  Œdip. O speak, go on, the air grows sensible

  Of the great things you utter, and is calm:

  The hurried orbs, with storms so racked of late,

  Seem to stand still, as if that Jove were talking.

  Cithæron! speak, the valley of Cithæron!

  Æge. Oft-times before, I thither did resort,

  Charmed with the conversation of a man,

  Who led a rural life, and had command

  O’er all the shepherds, who about those vales

  Tended their numerous flocks: in this man’s arms,

  I saw you smiling at a fatal dagger,

  Whose point he often offered at your throat;

  But then you smiled, and then he drew it back,

  Then lifted it again, — you smiled again:

  ‘Till he at last in fury threw it from him,

  And cried aloud, — The Gods forbid thy death.

  Then I rushed in, and, after some discourse,

  To me he did bequeath your innocent life;

  And I, the welcome care to Polybus.

  Œdip. To whom belongs the master of the shepherds?

  Æge. His name I knew not, or I have forgot:

  That he was of the family of Laius,

  I well remember.

  Œdip. And is your friend alive? for if he be,


  I’ll buy his presence, though it cost my crown.

  Æge. Your menial attendants best can tell

  Whether he lives, or not; and who has now

  His place.

  Joc. Winds, bear me to some barren island,

  Where print of human feet was never seen;

  O’er-grown with weeds of such a monstrous height,

  Their baleful tops are washed with bellying clouds;

  Beneath whose venomous shade I may have vent

  For horrors, that would blast the barbarous world!

  Œdip. If there be any here that knows the person

  Whom he described, I charge him on his life

  To speak; concealment shall be sudden death:

  But he, who brings him forth, shall have reward

  Beyond ambition’s lust.

  Tir. His name is Phorbas:

  Jocasta knows him well; but, if I may

  Advise, rest where you are, and seek no farther.

  Œdip. Then all goes well, since Phorbas is secured

  By my Jocasta. — Haste, and bring him forth:

  My love, my queen, give orders, Ha! what mean

  These tears, and groans, and strugglings? speak, my fair,

  What are thy troubles?

  Joc. Yours; and yours are mine:

  Let me conjure you, take the prophet’s counsel,

  And let this Phorbas go.

  Œdip. Not for the world.

  By all the Gods, I’ll know my birth, though death

  Attends the search. I have already past

  The middle of the stream; and to return,

  Seems greater labour than to venture over:

  Therefore produce him.

  Joc. Once more, by the Gods,

  I beg, my Œdipus, my lord, my life,

  My love, my all, my only, utmost hope!

  I beg you, banish Phorbas: O, the Gods,

  I kneel, that you may grant this first request.

  Deny me all things else; but for my sake,

  And as you prize your own eternal quiet,

  Never let Phorbas come into your presence.

  Œdip. You must be raised, and Phorbas shall appear,

  Though his dread eyes were basilisks. Guards, haste,

  Search the queen’s lodgings; find, and force him hither. [Exeunt Guards.

  Joc. O, Œdipus, yet send,

  And stop their entrance, ere it be too late;

  Unless you wish to see Jocasta rent

  With furies, — slain out-right with mere distraction!

  Keep from your eyes and mine the dreadful Phorbas.

  Forbear this search, I’ll think you more than mortal;

  Will you yet hear me?

  Œdip. Tempests will be heard,

  And waves will dash, though rocks their basis keep.

  But see, they enter. If thou truly lovest me,

  Either forbear this subject, or retire.

  Enter Hæmon, Guards, with Phorbas.