THE CHORUS.
The youth, thou say'st, we saw and heard but now—
ARCAS.
He comes to tell his prompter he hath sped.
THE CHORUS.
Still he repeats the drowning story here.
ARCAS.
To thee—that needs no Œdipus to explain.
THE CHORUS.
Interpret, then; for we, it seems, are dull.
ARCAS.
Your King desired the profit of his death,
Not the black credit of his murderer.
That stern word "murder" had too dread a sound
For the Messenian hearts, who loved the prince.
THE CHORUS.
Suspicion grave I see, but no firm proof.
MEROPE.
Peace! peace! all's clear.—The wicked watch and work
While the good sleep; the workers have the day.
Yes! yes! now I conceive the liberal grace
Of this far-scheming tyrant, and his boon
Of heirship to his kingdom for my son:
He had his murderer ready, and the sword
