TI.  No word from me.  At this, an if thou wilt,
Rage to the height of passionate vehemence.

OED. Ay, and my passion shall declare my thought. 
’Tis clear to me as daylight, thou hast been
The arch-plotter of this deed; yea, thou hast done
All but the actual blow.  Hadst thou thy sight,
I had proclaimed thee the sole murderer.

TI.  Ay, say’st thou so?—­I charge thee to abide
By thine own ordinance; and from this hour
Speak not to any Theban nor to me. 
Thou art the vile polluter of the land.

OED. O void of shame!  What wickedness is this? 
What power will give thee refuge for such guilt?

TI.  The might of truth is scatheless.  I am free.

OED. Whence came the truth to thee?  Not from thine art.

TI.  From thee, whose rage impelled my backward tongue.

OED. Speak it once more, that I may know the drift.

TI.  Was it so dark?  Or wouldst thou tempt me further?

OED. I cannot say ’twas clear.  Speak it again.

TI.  I say thou art the murderer whom thou seekest.

OED. Again that baleful word!  But thou shalt rue.

TI.  Shall I add more, to aggravate thy wrath?

OED. All is but idleness.  Say what thou wilt.

TI.  I tell thee thou art living unawares
In shameful commerce with thy near’st of blood,
Ignorant of the abyss wherein thou liest.

OED. Think you to triumph in offending still?

TI.  If Truth have power.

OED. She hath, but not for thee. 
Blind as thou art in eyes and ears and mind.

TI.  O miserable reproach, which all who now
Behold thee, soon shall thunder forth on thee!

OED. Nursed in unbroken night, thou canst not harm
Or me, or any man who seeth the day.

TI.  No, not from me proceeds thy fall; the God,
Who cares for this, is able to perform it.

OED. Came this device from Creon or thyself?

TI.  Not Creon:  thou art thy sole enemy.

OED. O wealth and sovereign power and high success
Attained through wisdom and admired of men,
What boundless jealousies environ you! 
When for this rule, which to my hand the State
Committed unsolicited and free,
Creon, my first of friends, trusted and sure,
Would undermine and hurl me from my throne,
Meanly suborning such a mendicant
Botcher of lies, this crafty wizard rogue,
Blind in his art, and seeing but for gain. 
Where are the proofs of thy prophetic power? 
How came it, when the minstrel-hound was here,
This folk had no deliverance through thy word? 
Her snare could not be loosed by common wit,
But needed divination and deep skill;
No sign whereof proceeded forth from thee
Procured through birds or given by God, till I,
The unknowing traveller, overmastered her,
The stranger Oedipus, not led by birds,
But ravelling out the secret by my thought: 
Whom now you study to supplant, and trust
To stand as a supporter of the throne
Of lordly Creon,—­To your bitter pain
Thou and the man who plotted this will hunt
Pollution forth[2].—­But for thy reverend look
Thou hadst atoned thy trespass on the spot.