_OEdip._ Trust me, thou fairest, best of all thy kind, None e'er in dreams was tortured so before. Yet what most shocks the niceness of my temper, Even far beyond the killing of my father, And my own death, is, that this horrid sleep Dashed my sick fancy with an act of incest: I dreamt, Jocasta, that thou wert my mother; Which, though impossible, so damps my spirits, That I could do a mischief on myself, Lest I should sleep, and dream the like again.
_Joc._ O OEdipus, too well I understand you! I know the wrath of heaven, the care of Thebes, The cries of its inhabitants, war's toils, And thousand other labours of the state, Are all referred to you, and ought to take you For ever from Jocasta.
_OEdip._ Life of my life, and treasure of my soul, Heaven knows I love thee.
_Joc._ O, you think me vile, And of an inclination so ignoble, That I must hide me from your eyes for ever. Be witness, gods, and strike Jocasta dead, If an immodest thought, or low desire, Inflamed my breast, since first our loves were lighted.
_OEdip._ O rise, and add not, by thy cruel kindness, A grief more sensible than all my torments. Thou thinkest my dreams are forged; but by thyself, The greatest oath, I swear, they are most true; But, be they what they will, I here dismiss them. Begone, chimeras, to your mother clouds! Is there a fault in us? Have we not searched The womb of heaven, examined all the entrails Of birds and beasts, and tired the prophet's art? Yet what avails? He, and the gods together, Seem, like physicians, at a loss to help us; Therefore, like wretches that have lingered long, We'll snatch the strongest cordial of our love; To bed, my fair.
_OEdip._ Ha! who calls? Didst thou not hear a voice?
_OEdip._ Call louder, till you burst your airy forms!-- Rest on my hand. Thus, armed with innocence, I'll face these babbling dæmons of the air; In spite of ghosts, I'll on. Though round my bed the furies plant their charms, I'll break them, with Jocasta in my arms; Clasped in the folds of love, I'll wait my doom; And act my joys, though thunder shake the room. [_Exeunt._
_Cre._ 'Tis better not to be, than be unhappy.
_Cre._ 'Tis better not to be, than to be Creon. A thinking soul is punishment enough; But when 'tis great, like mine, and wretched too, Then every thought draws blood.