OED. Woe! woe!  ’Tis clear as daylight.  Who was he
That brought you this dire message, O my queen?

JO.  A home-slave, who alone returned alive.

OED. And is he now at hand within the house?

JO.  No, truly.  When he came from yonder scene
And found thee king in room of Laius murdered,
He touched my hand, and made his instant prayer
That I would send him to o’erlook the flocks
And rural pastures, so to live as far
As might be from the very thought of Thebes. 
I granted his desire.  No servant ever
More richly merited such boon than he.

OED. Can he be brought again immediately?

JO.  Indeed he can.  But why desire it so?

OED. Words have by me been uttered, O my queen,
That give me too much cause to wish him here.

JO.  Then come he shall.  But I may surely claim
To hear what in thy state goes heavily.

OED. Thou shalt not lose thy rights in such an hour,
When I am harrowed thus with doubt and fear. 
To whom more worthy should I tell my grief? 
—­My father was Corinthian Polybus,
My mother, Dorian Merope.—­I lived
A prince among that people, till a chance
Encountered me, worth wonder, but, though strange,
Not worth the anxious thought it waked in me. 
For at a feasting once over the wine
One deep in liquor called aloud to me,
‘Hail, thou false foundling of a foster-sire!’
That day with pain I held my passion down;
But early on the morrow I came near
And questioned both my parents, who were fierce
In anger at the man who broached this word. 
For their part I was satisfied, but still
It galled me, for the rumour would not die. 
  Eluding then my parents I made way
To Delphi, where, as touching my desire,
Phoebus denied me; but brake forth instead
With other oracles of misery
And horrible misfortune, how that I
Must know my mother’s shame, and cause to appear
A birth intolerable in human view,
And do to death the author of my life. 
I fled forth at the word, conjecturing now
Corinthia’s region by the stars of heaven,
And wandered, where I never might behold
Those dreadful prophecies fulfilled on me. 
So travelling on, I came even to the place
Where, as thou tell’st, the King of Thebe fell. 
And, O my wife, I will hide nought from thee. 
When I drew near the cross-road of your tale,
A herald, and a man upon a car,
Like your description, there encountered me. 
And he who led the car, and he himself
The greybeard, sought to thrust me from the path. 
Then in mine angry mood I sharply struck
The driver-man who turned me from the way;
Which when the elder saw, he watched for me
As I passed by, and from the chariot-seat
Smote full upon my head with the fork’d goad;
But got more than he gave; for, by a blow
From this right hand, smit with my staff, he fell