low?

CREON.

Surely; thyself will trust his answer now.

OEDIPUS.

I charge thee more ... and, if thou fail, my sin
Shall cleave to thee.... For her who lies within,

[Sidenote: vv. 1448-1472]

Make as thou wilt her burial. 'Tis thy task
To tend thine own. But me: let no man ask
This ancient city of my sires to give
Harbour in life to me. Set me to live
On the wild hills and leave my name to those
Deeps of Kithairon which my father chose,
And mother, for my vast and living tomb.
As they, my murderers, willed it, let my doom
Find me. For this my very heart doth know,
No sickness now, nor any mortal blow,
Shall slay this body. Never had my breath
Been thus kept burning in the midst of death,
Save for some frightful end. So, let my way
Go where it listeth.
But my children--Nay,
Creon, my sons will ask thee for no care.
Men are they, and can find them everywhere
What life needs. But my two poor desolate
Maidens.... There was no table ever set
Apart for them, but whatso royal fare
I tasted, they were with me and had share
In all.... Creon, I pray, forget them not.
And if it may be, go, bid them be brought,

[CREON _goes and presently returns with the
two princesses._ OEDIPUS _thinks he is
there all the time._

That I may touch their faces, and so weep....
Go, Prince. Go, noble heart!...
If I might touch them, I should seem to keep
And not to have lost them, now mine eyes are gone....
What say I?
In God's name, can it be I hear mine own

[Sidenote: vv. 1473-1505]

Beloved ones sobbing? Creon of his grace
Hath brought my two, my dearest, to this place.
Is it true?

CREON.

'Tis true. I brought them, for in them I know
Thy joy is, the same now as long ago.

OEDIPUS.

God bless thee, and in this hard journey give
Some better guide than mine to help thee live.
Children! Where are ye? Hither; come to these
Arms of your ... brother, whose wild offices
Have brought much darkness on the once bright eyes
Of him who grew your garden; who, nowise
Seeing nor understanding, digged a ground
The world shall shudder at. Children, my wound
Is yours too, and I cannot meet your gaze
Now, as I think me what remaining days
Of bitter living the world hath for you.
What dance of damsels shall ye gather to,
What feast of Thebes, but quick ye shall turn home,
All tears, or