Oedipus.

O wealth and majesty, O conquering skill

That carved life's rebel pathways to my will,

What is your heart but bitterness, if now

For this poor crown Thebes bound upon my brow,

A gift, a thing I sought not—for this crown

Creon the stern and true, Creon mine own

Comrade, comes creeping in the dark to ban

And slay me; sending first this magic-man

And schemer, this false beggar-priest, whose eye

Is bright for gold and blind for prophecy?

Speak, thou. When hast thou ever shown thee strong

For aid? The She-Wolf of the woven song

Came, and thy art could find no word, no breath,

To save thy people from her riddling death.

'Twas scarce a secret, that, for common men

To unravel. There was need of Seer-craft then.

And thou hadst none to show. No fowl, no flame,

No God revealed it thee. 'Twas I that came,

Rude Oedipus, unlearned in wizard's lore,

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