The oath thou profferest, sire, I take and swear.
I slew him not myself, nor can I name
The slayer. For the quest, ’twere well, methinks
That Phoebus, who proposed the riddle, himself
Should give the answer–who the murderer was.

Well argued; but no living man can hope
To force the gods to speak against their will.

May I then say what seems next best to me?

Aye, if there be a third best, tell it too.

My liege, if any man sees eye to eye
With our lord Phoebus, ’tis our prophet, lord
Teiresias; he of all men best might guide
A searcher of this matter to the light.

Here too my zeal has nothing lagged, for twice
At Creon’s instance have I sent to fetch him,
And long I marvel why he is not here.

I mind me too of rumors long ago–
Mere gossip.

Tell them, I would fain know all.

‘Twas said he fell by travelers.

So I heard,
But none has seen the man who saw him fall.

Well, if he knows what fear is, he will quail
And flee before the terror of thy curse.

Words scare not him who blenches not at deeds.

But here is one to arraign him. Lo, at length
They bring the god-inspired seer in whom
Above all other men is truth inborn.

Enter TEIRESIAS, led by a boy.
OEDIPUS

Teiresias, seer who comprehendest all,
Lore of the wise and hidden mysteries,
High things of heaven and low things of the earth,
Thou knowest, though thy blinded eyes see naught,
What plague infects our city; and we turn
To thee, O seer, our one defense and shield.
The purport of the answer that the God
Returned to us who sought his oracle,
The messengers have doubtless told thee–how
One course alone could rid us of the pest,
To find the murderers of Laius,
And slay them or expel them from the land.
Therefore begrudging neither augury
Nor other divination that is thine,
O save thyself, thy country, and thy king,
Save all from this defilement of blood shed.
On thee we rest. This is man’s highest end,
To others’ service all his powers to lend.

Alas, alas, what misery to be wise
When wisdom profits nothing! This old lore
I had forgotten; else I were not here.

What ails thee? Why this melancholy mood?

Let me go home; prevent me not; ’twere best
That thou shouldst bear thy burden and I mine.

For shame! no true-born Theban patriot
Would thus withhold the word of prophecy.

Thy words, O king, are wide of the mark, and I
For fear lest I too trip like thee…

Oh speak,
Withhold not, I adjure thee, if thou know’st,
Thy knowledge. We are all thy suppliants.

Aye, for ye all are witless, but my voice
Will ne’er reveal my miseries–or thine.

What then, thou knowest, and yet willst not speak!
Wouldst thou betray us and destroy the State?

I will not vex myself nor thee. Why ask
Thus idly what from me thou shalt not learn?

Monster! thy silence would incense a flint.
Will nothing loose thy tongue? Can nothing melt thee,
Or shake thy dogged taciturnity?

Thou blam’st my mood and seest not thine own
Wherewith thou art mated; no, thou taxest me.

And who could stay his choler when he heard
How insolently thou dost flout the State?