OEDIPUS.
Merope, stranger, wife of Polybus.
MESSENGER.
And what of her can cause you any fear?
OEDIPUS.
A heaven-sent oracle of dread import.
MESSENGER.
A mystery, or may a stranger hear it?
OEDIPUS.
Aye, ’tis no secret. Loxias once foretold
That I should mate with mine own mother, and shed
With my own hands the blood of my own sire.
Hence Corinth was for many a year to me
A home distant; and I trove abroad,
But missed the sweetest sight, my parents’ face.
MESSENGER.
Was this the fear that exiled thee from home?
OEDIPUS.
Yea, and the dread of slaying my own sire.
MESSENGER.
Why, since I came to give thee pleasure, King,
Have I not rid thee of this second fear?
OEDIPUS.
Well, thou shalt have due guerdon for thy pains.
MESSENGER.
Well, I confess what chiefly made me come
Was hope to profit by thy coming home.