_Old Man:_ His form eludes my mind; not fully known, And yet again not all unknown his face. [_To_ Phorbas.] Old man, while Laius still was king, didst thou, His shepherd, ever drive the royal flocks To pasture here upon Cithaeron's slopes? _Phorbas:_ On fair Cithaeron's sunny slopes my flocks 845 Have ever found the greenest pasturage. _Old Man:_ Dost thou know me? _Phorbas:_ But dim and indistinct My memory. _Oedipus:_ Didst thou at any time An infant boy deliver to this man? [Phorbas _falters and turns pale_.] Come then, speak out! why dost thou hesitate? And why does pallor overspread thy cheeks? Why seek for words? The truth no respite needs. 850 _Phorbas:_ Thou speak'st of things long buried and forgot. _Oedipus:_ But speak, or pain shall drive thee to confess. _Phorbas:_ I gave a boy to him, a useless gift; He never could have lived or known the light. _Old Man:_ The gods forbid! The child is living still; 855 And may his life be long on earth, I pray. _Oedipus:_ Why dost thou think the child did not survive? _Phorbas:_ A slender rod of iron his ankles pierced, And bound his limbs. This wound produced a sore, Which by contagion spread o'er all his frame. _Old Man:_ Why question more? The fatal truth draws near. 860 Who was that infant boy? _Phorbas:_ My lips are sealed. _Oedipus:_ Bring hither fire! Its flames shall loose thy speech. _Phorbas:_ Must truth be sought along such cruel paths? I pray thy grace. _Oedipus:_ If I seem harsh to thee, Or headstrong, thy revenge is in thy hand-- 865 The truth revealed. Then speak: who was the child? Of what sire gotten? Of what mother born? _Phorbas: He was the son of her who is thy--wife_. _Oedipus:_ Then yawn, O earth! and thou, O king of shades, Into the lowest depths of hades hurl This vile confounder of the son and sire! 870 Ye citizens, on my incestuous head Heap crushing rocks! with weapons slaughter me! Let husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers--all Whose name I have defiled, against me arm! And let the poor, plague-smitten populace Hurl blazing brands from off their funeral pyres! The plague spot of the age, I wander here, 875 Heaven-cursed pollutor of all sacred ties; Who, in the day when first I breathed the air, Was doomed to death. [_To himself._] Call up thy courage now, And dare some deed befitting these thy crimes. Haste to thy palace and congratulate 880 Thy mother's house increased by children's sons. [_Exit._]