Pyr. This cannot fail:  I see you on the throne:  And OEdipus cast out.

Cre. Then strait came on
Alcander, with a wild and bellowing crowd,
Whom he had wrought; I whispered him to join. 
And head the forces while the heat was in them. 
So to the palace I returned, to meet
The king, and greet him with another story.—­
But see, he enters.

  Enter OEDIPUS and JOCASTA, attended.

OEdip. Said you that Phorbas is returned, and yet Intreats he may return, without being asked Of aught concerning what we have discovered?

Joc. He started when I told him your intent,
Replying, what he knew of that affair
Would give no satisfaction to the king;
Then, falling on his knees, begged, as for life,
To be dismissed from court:  He trembled too,
As if convulsive death had seized upon him,
And stammered in his abrupt prayer so wildly,
That had he been the murderer of Laius,
Guilt and distraction could not have shook him more.

OEdip. By your description, sure as plagues and death
Lay waste our Thebes, some deed that shuns the light
Begot those fears; if thou respect’st my peace,
Secure him, dear Jocasta; for my genius
Shrinks at his name.

Joc. Rather let him go:  So my poor boding heart would have it be, Without a reason.

OEdip. Hark, the Thebans come!  Therefore retire:  And, once more, if thou lovest me, Let Phorbas be retained.

Joc. You shall, while I
Have life, be still obeyed. 
In vain you sooth me with your soft endearments,
And set the fairest countenance to view;
Your gloomy eyes, my lord, betray a deadness
And inward languishing:  That oracle
Eats like a subtle worm its venomed way,
Preys on your heart, and rots the noble core,
Howe’er the beauteous out-side shews so lovely.

OEdip. O, thou wilt kill me with thy love’s excess!  All, all is well; retire, the Thebans come. [Exit JOC.

Ghost. OEdipus!

OEdip. Ha! again that scream of woe! 
Thrice have I heard, thrice, since the morning dawned,
It hollowed loud, as if my guardian spirit
Called from some vaulted mansion, OEdipus! 
Or is it but the work of melancholy? 
When the sun sets, shadows, that shewed at noon
But small, appear most long and terrible;
So, when we think fate hovers o’er our heads,
Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds;
Owls, ravens, crickets seem the watch of death;
Nature’s worst vermin scare her godlike sons;
Echoes, the very leavings of a voice,
Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves;
Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus;
While we fantastic dreamers heave and puff,
And sweat with an imagination’s weight;
As if, like Atlas, with these mortal shoulders
We could sustain the burden of the world. [CREON comes forward.