TIRESIAS.
Thyself, not Creon, is thy enemy.
OEDIPUS.
O wealth, O sovereignty, O art of arts
That givest victory in the race of life,
How are ye still by envious malice dogged!
This place of power, which now I hold, by me
Unsought, was by the city's will bestowed.
Yet the thrice-loyal Creon, my fast friend,
Seeks now to oust me by foul practices,
Using for tool this knavish soothsayer,
This lying mountebank, whose greedy palm
Has eyes, while in his science he is blind.
Show me the proofs of thy prophetic gift.
Why, when the riddling Sphinx was here, didst thou
Fail by thy skill to save the commonwealth?
The riddle was not such as all can read,
But gave thy art fair opportunity,
Yet neither inspiration served thee then,
Nor omens, but I, skilless Oedipus,
Out of my ignorance confounded her,
By my own wit, unhelped by auguries;
I, whom thou now conspirest to depose,
Hoping that thou wilt stand by Creon's throne.
These pious efforts, trust me, will be rued
By thee and him that sets thee on; thy years
Are thy defence from instant chastisement.
CHORUS.
To us, Lord Oedipus, alike thy word
And the seer's seem the utterance of your wrath.
Wrath here is out of place, what we would seek
Is a right reading of the oracle.
TIRESIAS
High is thy throne, yet must thou stoop so low
As to endure free speech; that power is mine.
I to my god am servant, not to thee,
And therefore, ask not Creon's patronage.
I tell thee who with blindness tauntest me,
Sight though thou hast thou seest not what thou art,
Nor where thou hast been dwelling, nor with whom.
Know'st thou thy birth? No, nor that thou art loathed
By thine own kin, the living and the dead.
One day thy sire's and mother's awful curse,
With double scourge, will whip thee from this land.
Dark then shall be those eyes which now are light,
And with thy cries what place shall not resound,
What glen of wide Cithaeron shall not ring,
As soon as thou dost learn into what port
Of marriage swelling sails have wafted thee?
Much is in store beside to bring thee down
Unto thy children's level and thy own.
Then trample upon Creon and my gift
Of prophecy. Of all mankind is none
Whom ruin more complete awaits than thee.
OEDIPUS.
Who can endure this caitiff's insolence?
Go to perdition on the instant; pack,
And of thy presence let this house be rid.