Ghost. Jocasta!
Joc. O my love, my lord, support me!
Œdip. Call louder, till you burst your airy forms!—
Rest on my hand. Thus, armed with innocence,
I'll face these babbling dæmons of the air;
In spite of ghosts, I'll on.
Though round my bed the furies plant their charms,
I'll break them, with Jocasta in my arms;
Clasped in the folds of love, I'll wait my doom;
And act my joys, though thunder shake the room.[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—A dark Grove.
Enter Creon and Diocles.
Cre. 'Tis better not to be, than be unhappy.
Dioc. What mean you by these words?
Cre. 'Tis better not to be, than to be Creon.
A thinking soul is punishment enough;
But when 'tis great, like mine, and wretched too,
Then every thought draws blood.
Dioc. You are not wretched.
165 Cre. I am: my soul's ill married to my body.
I would be young, be handsome, be beloved:
Could I but breathe myself into Adrastus!—