_Joc._ O wretched pair! O greatly wretched we! Two worlds of woe!
_OEdip._ Art thou not gone then? ha! How darest thou stand the fury of the gods? Or comest thou in the grave to reap new pleasures?
_Joc._ Talk on, till thou mak'st mad my rolling brain; Groan still more death; and may those dismal sources Still bubble on, and pour forth blood and tears. Methinks, at such a meeting, heaven stands still; The sea, nor ebbs, nor flows; this mole-hill earth Is heaved no more; the busy emmets cease: Yet hear me on--
_Joc._ O, my loved lord, though I resolve a ruin, To match my crimes; by all my miseries, 'Tis horror, worse than thousand thousand deaths, To send me hence without a kind farewell.
_OEdip._ Gods, how she shakes me!--stay thee, O Jocasta! Speak something ere thou goest for ever from me!
_Joc._ 'Tis woman's weakness, that I would be pitied; Pardon me then, O greatest, though most wretched. Of all thy kind! My soul is on the brink, And sees the boiling furnace just beneath: Do not thou push me off, and I will go, With such a willingness, as if that heaven With all its glory glowed for my reception.
_OEdip._ O, in my heart I feel the pangs of nature; It works with kindness o'er: give, give me way! I feel a melting here, a tenderness, Too mighty for the anger of the gods! Direct me to thy knees: yet, oh forbear, Lest the dead embers should revive. Stand off, and at just distance Let me groan my horrors!--here On the earth, here blow my utmost gale; Here sob my sorrows, till I burst with sighing; Here gasp and languish out my wounded soul.
_Joc._ In spite of all those crimes the cruel gods Can charge me with, I know my innocence; Know yours. 'Tis fate alone that makes us wretched, For you are still my husband.
_OEdip._ Swear I am, And I'll believe thee; steal into thy arms, Renew endearments, think them no pollutions, But chaste as spirits' joys. Gently I'll come, Thus weeping blind, like dewy night, upon thee, And fold thee softly in my arms to slumber. [_The Ghost of_ LAIUS _ascends by degrees, pointing at_ JOCASTA.
_Joc._ Begone, my lord! Alas, what are we doing? Fly from my arms! Whirlwinds, seas, continents, And worlds, divide us! O, thrice happy thou, Who hast no use of eyes; for here's a sight Would turn the melting face of mercy's self To a wild fury.