hrone. Thou art thyself the unclean thing.

OEDIPUS.

Thou front of brass, to fling out injury
So wild! Dost think to bate me and go free?

TIRESIAS.

I am free. The strong truth is in this heart.

OEDIPUS.

What prompted thee? I swear 'twas not thine art.

TIRESIAS.

'Twas thou. I spoke not, save for thy command.

OEDIPUS.

Spoke what? What was it? Let me understand.

TIRESIAS.

Dost tempt me? Were my words before not plain!

OEDIPUS.

Scarce thy full meaning. Speak the words again.

TIRESIAS.

Thou seek'st this man of blood: Thyself art he.

OEDIPUS.

'Twill cost thee dear, twice to have stabbed at me!

[Sidenote: vv. 364-377]

TIRESIAS.

Shall I say more, to see thee rage again?

OEDIPUS.

Oh, take thy fill of speech: 'twill all be vain.

TIRESIAS.

Thou livest with those near to thee in shame
Most deadly, seeing not thyself nor them.

OEDIPUS.

Thou think'st 'twill help thee, thus to speak and speak?

TIRESIAS.

Surely, until the strength of Truth be weak.

OEDIPUS.

'Tis weak to none save thee. Thou hast no part
In truth, thou blind man, blind eyes, ears and heart.

TIRESIAS.

More blind, more sad thy words of scorn, which none
Who hears but shall cast back on thee: soon, soon.

OEDIPUS.

Thou spawn of Night, not I nor any free
And seeing man would hurt a thing like thee.

TIRESIAS.

God is enough.--'Tis not my doom to fall
By thee. He knows and shall accomplish all.

[Sidenote: vv. 378-402]

OEDIPUS (_with a flash of discovery_).

Ha! Creon!--Is it his or thine, this plot?

TIRESIAS.

'Tis thyself hates thee. Creon hates thee not.

OEDIPUS.

O wealth and majesty, O conquering skill
That carved life's rebel pathways to my will,
What is your heart but bitterness, if now
For this poor crown Thebes bound upon my brow,
A gift, a thing I sought not--for this crown
Creon the stern and true, Creon mine own
Comrade, comes creeping in the dark to ban
And slay me; sending first this magic-man
And schemer, this false beggar-priest, whose eye
Is bright for gold and blind for prophecy?
Speak, thou. When hast thou ever shown thee strong
For aid? The She-Wolf of the woven song
Came, and thy art could find no word, no breath,
To save thy people from her riddling death.
'Twas scarce a secret, that, for common men
To unravel. There was need of Seer-craft then.
And thou hadst non