Joc. O, my loved lord, though I resolve a ruin,
To match my crimes; by all my miseries,
'Tis horror, worse than thousand thousand deaths,
To send me hence without a kind farewell.
213 Œdip. Gods, how she shakes me!—stay thee, O Jocasta!
Speak something ere thou goest for ever from me!
Joc. 'Tis woman's weakness, that I would be pitied;
Pardon me then, O greatest, though most wretched.
Of all thy kind! My soul is on the brink,
And sees the boiling furnace just beneath:
Do not thou push me off, and I will go,
With such a willingness, as if that heaven
With all its glory glowed for my reception.
Œdip. O, in my heart I feel the pangs of nature;
It works with kindness o'er: give, give me way!
I feel a melting here, a tenderness,
Too mighty for the anger of the gods!
Direct me to thy knees: yet, oh forbear,
Lest the dead embers should revive.
Stand off, and at just distance
Let me groan my horrors!—here
On the earth, here blow my utmost gale;
Here sob my sorrows, till I burst with sighing;
Here gasp and languish out my wounded soul.
Joc. In spite of all those crimes the cruel gods
Can charge me with, I know my innocence;
Know yours. 'Tis fate alone that makes us wretched,
For you are still my husband.
Œdip. Swear I am,
And I'll believe thee; steal into thy arms,
Renew endearments, think them no pollutions,
But chaste as spirits' joys. Gently I'll come,
Thus weeping blind, like dewy night, upon thee,
And fold thee softly in my arms to slumber. [The Ghost of Laius ascends by degrees, pointing at Jocasta.
Joc. Begone, my lord! Alas, what are we doing?
Fly from my arms! Whirlwinds, seas, continents,
And worlds, divide us! O, thrice happy thou,
Who hast no use of eyes; for here's a sight
214 Would turn the melting face of mercy's self
To a wild fury.
Œdip. Ha! what seest thou there?
Joc. The spirit of my husband! O, the gods!
How wan he looks!
Œdip. Thou ravest; thy husband's here.