Tiresias.

I speak no more. For thee, if passioning

Doth comfort thee, on, passion to thy fill!

[He moves to go.

Oedipus.

’Fore God, 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

Speak word to me, nor yet to these who ring

Thy throne. Thou art thyself the unclean thing.

Oedipus.

Thou front of brass, 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!

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 spawn of Night, not I nor any tree

And seeing man would hurt a thing like thee.

Tiresias.

God is enough.—’Tis not my doom to fall

By thee. He knows and shall accomplish all.

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