Joc. Haste thee, then,
Or I shall be before thee.  See,—­thou canst not see! 
Then I will tell thee that my wings are on. 
I’ll mount, I’ll fly, and with a port divine
Glide all along the gaudy milky soil,
To find my Laius out; ask every god
In his bright palace, if he knows my Laius,
My murdered Laius!

OEdip. Ha! how’s this, Jocasta? 
Nay, if thy brain be sick, then thou art happy.
Joc. Ha! will you not? shall I not find him out? 
Will you not show him? are my tears despised? 
Why, then I’ll thunder, yes, I will be mad,
And fright you with my cries.  Yes, cruel gods,
Though vultures, eagles, dragons tear my heart,
I’ll snatch celestial flames, fire all your dwellings,
Melt down your golden roofs, and make your doors
Of crystal fly from off their diamond hinges;
Drive you all out from your ambrosial hives,
To swarm like bees about the field of heaven. 
This will I do, unless you show me Laius,
My dear, my murdered lord.  O Laius!  Laius!  Laius! [Exit JOCASTA.

OEdip. Excellent grief! why, this is as it should be! 
No mourning can be suitable to crimes
Like ours, but what death makes, or madness forms. 
I could have wished, methought, for sight again,
To mark the gallantry of her distraction;
Her blazing eyes darting the wandering stars,
To have seen her mouth the heavens, and mate the gods,
While with her thundering voice she menaced high,
And every accent twanged with smarting sorrow;
But what’s all this to thee? thou, coward, yet
Art living, canst not, wilt not find the road
To the great palace of magnificent Death;
Though thousand ways lead to his thousand doors,
Which, day and night, are still unbarred for all.
                    [Clashing of Swords.  Drums and Trumpets without.
Hark! ’tis the noise of clashing swords! the sound
Comes near;—­O, that a battle would come o’er me! 
If I but grasp a sword, or wrest a dagger,
I’ll make a ruin with the first that falls.

  Enter HAEMON, with Guards.

Haem. Seize him, and bear him to the western tower.—­
Pardon me, sacred sir; I am informed
That Creon has designs upon your life: 
Forgive me, then, if, to preserve you from him,
I order your confinement.

OEdip. Slaves, unhand me!—­
I think thou hast a sword;—­’twas the wrong side. 
Yet, cruel Haemon, think not I will live;
He, that could tear his eyes out, sure can find
Some desperate way to stifle this cursed breath: 
Or if I starve!—­but that’s a lingering fate;
Or if I leave my brains upon the wall!—­
The airy soul can easily o’er-shoot
Those bounds, with which thou striv’st to pale her in. 
Yes, I will perish in despite of thee;
And, by the rage that stirs me, if I meet thee
In the other world, I’ll curse thee for this usage. [Exit.