_Chorus:_ See where with hurried step Jocasta comes, Beside herself and overcome with grief; 1005 As when in maddened rage that Theban dame Her son's head tore away and realized What she had done. She wavers, longs to speak To that afflicted one, and fears to speak. Now shame at last has yielded to her grief, And with a faltering tongue she speaks to him. _Jocasta:_ What shall I call thee? Son? Dost shun that name? Thou art my son; thy shame confesseth it. 1010 And yet, O son, though all unwilling, speak. Why dost thou turn away thy sightless face? _Oedipus:_ Who now forbids me to enjoy my night? Who gives me back mine eyes? My mother's voice! Oh, awful sound! Now is my labor vain. Stay where thou art! Each step is impious. Let boundless seas our guilty souls divide, 1015 And lands remote; and if beneath this land Some other hangs, beholding other stars, May that far country one of us receive. _Jocasta:_ What thou deplorest is the fault of fate. A fated crime can leave no stain of sin. _Oedipus:_ Now cease thy words, O mother, spare my ears, 1020 By these poor remnants of my mangled form, By that unhallowed offspring of my blood, And all that in the double names we bear Is right and wrong! _Jocasta [to herself]:_ Why art thou listless now, O soul of mine? Since thou hast shared his guilt, Why hesitate to share his punishment? 1025 The beauty of all human intercourse Has fallen into ruin for thy sake, Confused and lost, O wretch incestuous. Not if the father of the gods himself Should hurl at me his glittering thunderbolts, Could I for my foul crimes atonement make, 1030 Since I the name of mother have profaned. Now death is welcome, but the way of death Must I consider. [_To_ Oedipus.] Come, thou parricide, And lift thy hand against thy mother too. This act is wanting to complete thy work. [_To herself._] Now let the sword be drawn. By this good blade Was Laius, my husband, slain--not so; 1035 My husband's father, by his rightful name! Shall I this weapon plunge into my breast, Or thrust it deep within my waiting neck? Nay, nay: thou know'st not how to choose a place. Strike here, O hand, through this capacious womb, Which (horrible!) the son and husband bore. [_She stabs herself and falls dead._] _Chorus:_ She lies in death, her failing hand relaxed; 1040 And spouting streams of blood drive out the sword.