OEDIPUS.
Died he of sickness or through treachery?
MESSENGER.
A touch will lay the aged form to sleep.
OEDIPUS.
He died, poor king, by sickness it would seem.
MESSENGER.
By sickness added to his length of years.
OEDIPUS.
Fie on it, wife! why should we ever waste
One thought on that prophetic Pythian shrine,
Or on the notes of birds whose boding cry
Foretold that I should be a parricide?
Beneath the ground my father lies, and I
Am guiltless of his blood, unless his heart
Broke at my loss, and thus through me he died.
These prophecies that trouble us are naught,
Are buried in the grave of Polybus.