vv. 665–680
OEDIPUS, KING OF THEBES
But it bleedeth, it bleedeth sore,
In a land half slain,
If we join to the griefs of yore
Griefs of you twain.
Oedipus.
Oh, let him go, though it be utterly
My death, or flight from Thebes in beggary.
’Tis thy sad lips, not his, that make me know
Pity. Him I shall hate, where’er he go.
Creon.
I see thy mercy moving full of hate
And slow; thy wrath came swift and desperate.
Methinks, of all the pain that such a heart
Spreadeth, itself doth bear the bitterest part.
Oedipus.
Oh, leave me and begone!
Creon.
I go, wronged sore
By thee. These friends will trust me as before.
[Creon goes. Oedipus stands apart lost in trouble of mind.
Leader.
[Antistrophe.
Queen, wilt thou lead him to his house again?
Jocasta.
I will, when I have heard.
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