TI.  Take heed.  Again thou art on an edge of peril.

CR.  What is it?  How I shudder at thy word!

TI.  The tokens of mine art shall make thee know. 
As I was sitting on that ancient seat
Of divination, where I might command
Sure cognisance of every bird of the air,
I heard strange clamouring of fowl, that screeched
In furious dissonance; and, I could tell,
Talons were bloodily engaged—­the whirr
Of wings told a clear tale.  At once, in fear,
I tried burnt sacrifice at the high altar: 
Where from the offering the fire god refused
To gleam; but a dank humour from the bones
Dripped on the embers with a sputtering fume. 
The gall was spirited high in air, the thighs
Lay wasting, bared of their enclosing fat. 
Such failing tokens of blurred augury
This youth reported, who is guide to me,
As I to others.  And this evil state
Is come upon the city from thy will: 
Because our altars—­yea, our sacred hearths—­
Are everywhere infected from the mouths
Of dogs or beak of vulture that hath fed
On Oedipus’ unhappy slaughtered son. 
And then at sacrifice the Gods refuse
Our prayers and savour of the thigh-bone fat—­
And of ill presage is the thickening cry
Of bird that battens upon human gore
Now, then, my son, take thought.  A man may err;
But he is not insensate or foredoomed
To ruin, who, when he hath lapsed to evil,
Stands not inflexible, but heals the harm. 
The obstinate man still earns the name of fool. 
Urge not contention with the dead, nor stab
The fallen.  What valour is ’t to slay the slain? 
I have thought well of this, and say it with care;
And careful counsel, that brings gain withal,
Is precious to the understanding soul.

CR.  I am your mark, and ye with one consent
All shoot your shafts at me.  Nought left untried,
Not even the craft of prophets, by whose crew
I am bought and merchandised long since.  Go on! 
Traffic, get gain, electrum from the mine
Of Lydia, and the gold of Ind!  Yet know,
Grey-beard! ye ne’er shall hide him in a tomb. 
No, not if heaven’s own eagle chose to snatch
And bear him to the throne supreme for food,
Even that pollution should not daunt my heart
To yield permission for his funeral. 
For well know I defilement ne’er can rise
From man to God.  But, old Tiresias, hear! 
Even wisest spirits have a shameful fall
That fairly speak base words for love of gain.

TI.  Ah! where is wisdom? who considereth?

CR.  Wherefore? what means this universal doubt?

TI.  How far the best of riches is good counsel!

CR.  As far as folly is the mightiest bane.

TI.  Yet thou art sick of that same pestilence.

CR.  I would not give the prophet blow for blow.

TI.  What blow is harder than to call me false?

CR.  Desire of money is the prophet’s plague.