Joc. Winds, bear me to some barren island,
Where print of human feet was never seen;
O’er-grown with weeds of such a monstrous height,
Their baleful tops are washed with bellying clouds;
Beneath whose venomous shade I may have vent
For horrors, that would blast the barbarous world!

OEdip. If there be any here that knows the person
Whom he described, I charge him on his life
To speak; concealment shall be sudden death: 
But he, who brings him forth, shall have reward
Beyond ambition’s lust.

Tir. His name is Phorbas: 
Jocasta knows him well; but, if I may
Advise, rest where you are, and seek no farther.

OEdip. Then all goes well, since Phorbas is secured
By my Jocasta.—­Haste, and bring him forth: 
My love, my queen, give orders, Ha! what mean
These tears, and groans, and strugglings? speak, my fair,
What are thy troubles?

Joc. Yours; and yours are mine:  Let me conjure you, take the prophet’s counsel, And let this Phorbas go.

OEdip. Not for the world. 
By all the Gods, I’ll know my birth, though death
Attends the search.  I have already past
The middle of the stream; and to return,
Seems greater labour than to venture over: 
Therefore produce him.

Joc. Once more, by the Gods,
I beg, my OEdipus, my lord, my life,
My love, my all, my only, utmost hope! 
I beg you, banish Phorbas:  O, the Gods,
I kneel, that you may grant this first request. 
Deny me all things else; but for my sake,
And as you prize your own eternal quiet,
Never let Phorbas come into your presence.

OEdip. You must be raised, and Phorbas shall appear,
Though his dread eyes were basilisks.  Guards, haste,
Search the queen’s lodgings; find, and force him hither.
          
                                           [Exeunt Guards.

Joc. O, OEdipus, yet send,
And stop their entrance, ere it be too late;
Unless you wish to see Jocasta rent
With furies,—­slain out-right with mere distraction! 
Keep from your eyes and mine the dreadful Phorbas. 
Forbear this search, I’ll think you more than mortal;
Will you yet hear me?

OEdip. Tempests will be heard,
And waves will dash, though rocks their basis keep. 
But see, they enter.  If thou truly lovest me,
Either forbear this subject, or retire.

  Enter HAEMON, Guards, with PHORBAS.

Joc. Prepare then, wretched prince, prepare to hear
A story, that shall turn thee into stone. 
Could there be hewn a monstrous gap in nature,
A flaw made through the centre, by some God,
Through which the groans of ghosts may strike thy ears,
They would not wound thee, as this story will. 
Hark, hark! a hollow voice calls out aloud,
Jocasta!  Yes, I’ll to the royal bed,
Where first the mysteries of our loves were acted,
And double-dye it with imperial crimson;
Tear off this curling hair,
Be gorged with fire, stab every vital part,
And, when at last I’m slain, to crown the horror,
My poor tormented ghost shall cleave the ground,
To try if hell can yet more deeply wound. [Exit.