OEdip. That’s strange! methought I heard a doleful voice
Cry, OEdipus.—­The prophet bade me sleep. 
He talked of dreams, and visions, and to-morrow! 
I’ll muse no more; come what will, or can,
My thoughts are clearer than unclouded stars;
And with those thoughts I’ll rest.  Creon, good-night.
          
                                           [Exit with HAEM.

Cre. Sleep seal your eyes up, sir,—­eternal sleep! 
But if he sleep and wake again, O all
Tormenting dreams, wild horrors of the night,
And hags of fancy, wing him through the air: 
From precipices hurl him headlong down,
Charybdis roar, and death be set before him!

Alc. Your curses have already taken effect, For he looks very sad.

Cre. May he be rooted, where he stands, for ever;
His eye-balls never move, brows be unbent,
His blood, his entrails, liver, heart, and bowels,
Be blacker than the place I wish him, hell.

Pyr. No more; you tear yourself, but vex not him. 
Methinks ’twere brave this night to force the temple,
While blind Tiresias conjures up the fiends,
And pass the time with nice Eurydice.

Alc. Try promises and threats, and if all fail, Since hell’s broke loose, why should not you be mad?  Ravish, and leave her dead with her Adrastus.

Cre. Were the globe mine, I’d give a province hourly
For such another thought.—­Lust and revenge! 
To stab at once the only man I hate,
And to enjoy the woman whom I love! 
I ask no more of my auspicious stars,
The rest as fortune please; so but this night
She play me fair, why, let her turn for ever.

  Enter HAEMON.

Haem. My lord, the troubled king is gone to rest;
Yet, ere he slept, commanded me to clear
The antichambers; none must dare be near him.

Cre. Haemon, you do your duty; [Thunder.
And we obey.—­The night grows yet more dreadful! 
’Tis just that all retire to their devotions. 
The gods are angry; but to-morrow’s dawn,
If prophets do not lie, will make all clear.

  As they go off, OEDIPUS enters, walking asleep in his shirt, with
  a dagger in his right hand, and a taper in his left.

OEdip. O, my Jocasta! ’tis for this, the wet
Starved soldier lies on the cold ground;
For this, he bears the storms
Of winter camps, and freezes in his arms;
To be thus circled, to be thus embraced. 
That I could hold thee ever!—­Ha! where art thou? 
What means this melancholy light, that seems
The gloom of glowing embers? 
The curtain’s drawn; and see she’s here again! 
Jocasta?  Ha! what, fallen asleep so soon? 
How fares my love? this taper will inform me.—­
Ha!  Lightning blast me, thunder
Rivet me ever to Prometheus’ rock,
And vultures gnaw out my incestuous heart!—­