OEDIPUS.
Go, some one; fetch the herdsman with all speed,
And let this lady vaunt her pedigree.
JOCASTA.
Alack! alack! Wretch, by no other name
Can I now call thee or shall call thee more!
(JOCASTA rushes off the scene.)
CHORUS.
O King, why has the lady rushed away
In this wild burst of grief? I sorely fear
Her silence prefaces a storm of woe.
OEDIPUS.
Let her storm on! resolved am I to find
The stem that bore me, lowly though it be.
She, very like, puffed with a woman's pride,
May feel ashamed of my ignoble birth.
For me, I do esteem me Fortune's child,
Nor blush to hold me of her favour born.
She is my mother; and my father, Time,
Whose months have on to greatness borne his child.
With such a parentage I fear no change
That should forbid me to search out my birth.
* * * * *