ANTIGONE.
Oedipus, my unhappy sire, the towers
That fence the city round far off appear.
This seems a holy place; 'tis full of pine,
Of laurel, and of vine under whose leaves
Trills her sweet notes full many a nightingale.
Here rest thee on this unhewn seat of rock;
The journey for thy aged feet was long.
OEDIPUS.
Guide thy old father safely to the seat.