In _Cleomenes, Cassandra_ rails against Religion at the Altar, and in the midst of a publick Solemnity.
_Accurs'd be thou Grass-eating fodderd God! Accurs'd thy Temple! more accurs'd thy Priests!_[215]
She goes on in a mighty Huff, and charges the Gods and Priesthood with Confederacy, and Imposture, This Rant is very unlikely at _Alexandria_. No People are more bigotted in their Superstition than the _Ægyptians_; Nor any more resenting of such an Affront. This Satyr then must be strangely out of Fashion, and probability. No matter for that; it may work by way of Inference, and be serviceable at Home. And 'tis a handsom Compliment to Libertines and Atheists.
We have much such another swaggering against Priests in _Oedipus_.
_Why seek I Truth from thee? The smiles of Courtiers and the Harlots tears, The Tradesmens Oaths, and Mourning of an Heir, Are Truths to what Priests tell. O why has Priesthood privilege to Lie, And yet to be believ'd!_[216]
And since They are thus Lively, I have one word or two to say to the _Play_.
When _Ægeon_ brought the News of King _Polybus_'s Death, _Oedipus_ was wonderfully surpriz'd at the Relation.
_O all ye Powers is't possible? what, Dead!_[217]
And why not? was the Man invulnerable or immortal? Nothing of that: He was only Fourscore and Ten years old, that was his main security. And if you will believe the Poet he
_Fell like Autumn Fruit that mellow'd long, Ev'n wondred at because he dropt no sooner._[218]
And which is more, _Oedipus_ must be acquainted with his Age, having spent the greatest part of his time with him at _Corinth_. So that in short, the pith of the Story lies in this Circumstance. A Prince of Ninety years was dead, and one who was wondred at for dying no sooner. And now why so much Exclamation upon this occasion? Why must all the _Powers_ in Being be Summon'd in to make the News Credible? This _Posse_ of _Interjections_ would have been more seasonably raised if the Man had been alive; for that by the Poets Confession had been much the stranger Thing. However _Oedipus_ is almost out of his Wits about the Matter, and is Urgent for an account of Particulars.
_That so the Tempest of my joys may rise By just degrees, and hit at last the Stars._[219]