Laïus must die. And he, the tale yet stays
Among us, at the crossing of three ways
Was slain by robbers, strangers. And my son—
God’s mercy!—scarcely the third day was gone
When Laïus took, and by another’s hand
Out on the desert mountain, where the land
Is rock, cast him to die. Through both his feet
A blade of iron they drove. Thus did we cheat
Apollo of his will. My child could slay
No father, and the King could cast away
The fear that dogged him, by his child to die
Murdered.—Behold the fruits of prophecy!
Which heed not thou! God needs not that a seer
Help him, when he would make his dark things clear.
Oedipus.
Woman, what turmoil hath thy story wrought
Within me! What up-stirring of old thought!
Jocasta.
What thought? It turns thee like a frightened thing.
Oedipus.
’Twas at the crossing of three ways this King
Was murdered? So I heard or so I thought.
Jocasta.
That was the tale. It is not yet forgot.
Oedipus.
The crossing of three ways! And in what land?
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