Œdip. Why speak you not according to my charge?
Bring forth the rack: since mildness cannot win you,
Torments shall force.
Phor. Hold, hold, O dreadful sir!
You will not rack an innocent old man?
Œdip. Speak then.
Phor. Alas! What would you have me say?
Œdip. Did this old man take from your arms an infant?
Phor. He did: And, Oh! I wish to all the gods,
Phorbas had perished in that very moment.
203 Œdip. Moment! Thou shalt be hours, days, years, a dying.—
Here, bind his hands; he dallies with my fury:
But I shall find a way—
Phor. My lord, I said
I gave the infant to him.
Œdip. Was he thy own, or given thee by another?
Phor. He was not mine, but given me by another.