_Joc._ Once more, by the Gods, I beg, my OEdipus, 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.
_OEdip._ 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, OEdipus, 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?
_OEdip._ 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.
_Joc._ Prepare then, wretched prince, prepare to hear A story, that shall turn thee into stone. Could there be hewn a monstrous gap in nature, A flaw made through the centre, by some God, Through which the groans of ghosts may strike thy ears, They would not wound thee, as this story will. Hark, hark! a hollow voice calls out aloud, Jocasta! Yes, I'll to the royal bed, Where first the mysteries of our loves were acted, And double-dye it with imperial crimson; Tear off this curling hair, Be gorged with fire, stab every vital part, And, when at last I'm slain, to crown the horror, My poor tormented ghost shall cleave the ground, To try if hell can yet more deeply wound. [_Exit._
_OEdip._ She's gone; and, as she went, methought her eyes Grew larger, while a thousand frantic spirits, Seething like rising bubbles on the brim, Peeped from the watry brink, and glowed upon me. I'll seek no more; but hush my genius up, That throws me on my fate.--Impossible! O wretched man, whose too too busy thoughts Hide swifter than the gallopping heaven's round, With an eternal hurry of the soul. Nay, there's a time when even the rolling year Seems to stand still, dead calms are in the ocean, When not a breath disturbs the drowzy waves: But man, the very monster of the world, Is ne'er at rest; the soul for ever wakes. Come then, since destiny thus drives us on, Let us know the bottom.--Hæmon, you I sent; Where is that Phorbas?