Eurotas' stream; ye who in Sparta dwell, Illustrious for its heavenly brothers twain; And ye who reap Boeotia's fertile fields, The plains of Elis and Parnassus' slopes: 130 What riddle like to this could she propose, That curse of Thebes, who wove destructive words In puzzling measures? What so dark as this? _He was his grandsire's son-in-law, and yet His father's rival; brother of his sons, 135 And father of his brothers; at one birth The granddame bore unto her husband sons, And grandson's to herself._ Who can unwind A tangle such as this? E'en I myself, Who bore the spoils of triumph o'er the Sphinx, Stand mute before the riddle of my fate. * * * * * [_Has a speech of_ Antigone _dropped out at this point, or does_ Oedipus _hark back to a previous thought after a dramatic pause?_] But why waste further words? Why dost thou try 140 To soften my determined heart with prayers? My will is fixed to pour this spirit forth Which now for long has struggled sore with death, And seek the world of shades; for blackest night Is still not black enough for this my crime. 'Tis sweet in deepest Tartarus to hide; Or, if there yet is deeper pit than this, 145 There would I go. 'Tis well to do at last The thing which long ago should have been done. I cannot be prevented from my death. Wilt take away my sword? Wilt bar all paths That lead unto the fatal precipice? Wilt keep my neck free from the choking noose? Remove all poisonous herbs from me? Yet what, 150 Think'st thou, will all that care of thine avail? For death is everywhere. A kindly God Hath this great law with wisest care ordained: That anyone can take man's life away, But none can stay his death; for countless ways Are open unto him who seeks to die. I ask no aid of thine. Well am I used To employ this naked hand. Then come, my hand, 155 With all thy force, with all thy passion, come. And not one wound alone would I endure, For I have sinned in every part of me. Come, strike the mortal blow where'er thou wilt: Break through my breast and tear my heart away, So full of sin; lay bear my vitals all; 160 Rain blows upon my neck until it break, Or let thy gouging fingers tear my veins Until they flow with blood. Or, if thou wilt, Direct thine anger whither thou art wont: These healing wounds reopen; let them flow With streams of blood and loathsome gore again; And through this passage drag my life away, So stubborn in defeat, so hard to storm. 165 And thou, O father, wheresoe'er thou art, Who stand'st as judge upon my just deserts, I ne'er have thought that such a crime as mine Could ever be sufficiently atoned, Nor has this living death contented me;