Phor. There was a dreadful one
Which had foretold that most unhappy son
Should kill his father, and enjoy his mother.
Œd. 'Tis well! I thank you gods! 'tis wondrous well!
Dagger and poison—O there is no need
For my dispatch; and you, ye merciless powers,
Hoard up your thunder stones; keep, keep your bolts
For crimes of little note.
Adrastus. Help—and bow him gently forward,
Chafe, chafe his temples—He breathes again,