Joc. O, I could rave,
Pull down those lying fanes, and burn that vault,
From whence resounded those false oracles,
That robbed my love of rest:  If we must pray,
Rear in the streets bright altars to the Gods,
Let virgins’ hands adorn the sacrifice;
And not a grey-beard forging priest come near,
To pry into the bowels of the victim,
And with his dotage mad the gaping world. 
But see, the oracle that I will trust,
True as the Gods, and affable as men.

  Enter AEGEON. Kneels.

OEdip. O, to my arms, welcome, my dear AEgeon;
Ten thousand welcomes!  O, my foster-father,
Welcome as mercy to a man condemned! 
Welcome to me, as, to a sinking mariner,
The lucky plank that bears him to the shore! 
But speak, O tell me what so mighty joy
Is this thou bring’st, which so transports Jocasta?

Joc. Peace, peace, AEgeon, let Jocasta tell him!—­
O that I could for ever charm, as now,
My dearest OEdipus!  Thy royal father,
Polybus, king of Corinth, is no more.

OEdip. Ha! can it be?  AEgeon, answer me; And speak in short, what my Jocasta’s transport May over-do.

AEge. Since in few words, my royal lord, you ask To know the truth,—­king Polybus is dead.

OEdip. O all you powers, is’t possible? what, dead! 
But that the tempest of my joy may rise
By just degrees, and hit at last the stars,
Say, how, how died he? ha! by sword, by fire,
Or water? by assassinates, or poison? speak: 
Or did he languish under some disease?

AEge. Of no distemper, of no blast he died,
But fell like autumn-fruit that mellowed long;
Even wondered at, because he dropt no sooner. 
Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years;
Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more: 
Till, like a clock worn out with eating time,
The wheels of weary life at last stood still.

OEdip. O, let me press thee in my youthful arms,
And smother thy old age in my embraces. 
Yes, Thebans, yes, Jocasta, yes, Adrastus,
Old Polybus, the king my father’s dead! 
Fires shall be kindled in the midst of Thebes;
In the midst of tumult, wars, and pestilence,
I will rejoice for Polybus’s death. 
Know, be it known to the limits of the world;
Yet farther, let it pass yon dazzling roof,
The mansion of the Gods, and strike them deaf
With everlasting peals of thundering joy.

Tir. Fate!  Nature!  Fortune! what is all this world?

OEdip. Now, dotard; now, thou blind old wizard prophet,
Where are your boding ghosts, your altars now;
Your birds of knowledge, that in dusky air
Chatter futurity?  And where are now
Your oracles, that called me parricide? 
Is he not dead? deep laid in his monument? 
And was not I in Thebes when fate attacked him? 
Avaunt, begone, you vizors of the Gods! 
Were I as other sons, now I should weep;
But, as I am, I have reason to rejoice: 
And will, though his cold shade should rise and blast me. 
O, for this death, let waters break their bounds;
Rocks, valleys, hills, with splitting Io’s ring: 
Io, Jocasta, Io paean sing!