OEdip. O rise, and add not, by thy cruel kindness,
A grief more sensible than all my torments. 
Thou thinkest my dreams are forged; but by thyself,
The greatest oath, I swear, they are most true;
But, be they what they will, I here dismiss them. 
Begone, chimeras, to your mother clouds! 
Is there a fault in us?  Have we not searched
The womb of heaven, examined all the entrails
Of birds and beasts, and tired the prophet’s art? 
Yet what avails?  He, and the gods together,
Seem, like physicians, at a loss to help us;
Therefore, like wretches that have lingered long,
We’ll snatch the strongest cordial of our love;
To bed, my fair.

Ghost. [Within.] OEdipus!

OEdip. Ha! who calls?  Didst thou not hear a voice?

Joc. Alas!  I did.

Ghost. Jocasta!

Joc. O my love, my lord, support me!

OEdip. Call louder, till you burst your airy forms!—­
Rest on my hand.  Thus, armed with innocence,
I’ll face these babbling daemons of the air;
In spite of ghosts, I’ll on. 
Though round my bed the furies plant their charms,
I’ll break them, with Jocasta in my arms;
Clasped in the folds of love, I’ll wait my doom;
And act my joys, though thunder shake the room. [Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.—­A dark Grove.

  Enter CREON and DIOCLES.

Cre. ’Tis better not to be, than be unhappy.

Dioc. What mean you by these words?

Cre. ’Tis better not to be, than to be Creon. 
A thinking soul is punishment enough;
But when ’tis great, like mine, and wretched too,
Then every thought draws blood.

Dioc. You are not wretched.

Cre. I am:  my soul’s ill married to my body.  I would be young, be handsome, be beloved:  Could I but breathe myself into Adrastus!—­

Dioc. You rave; call home your thoughts.

Cre. I pr’ythee let my soul take air a while;
Were she in OEdipus, I were a king;
Then I had killed a monster, gained a battle,
And had my rival prisoner; brave, brave actions! 
Why have not I done these?

Dioc. Your fortune hindered.

Cre. There’s it; I have a soul to do them all: 
But fortune will have nothing done that’s great,
But by young handsome fools; body and brawn
Do all her work:  Hercules was a fool,
And straight grew famous; a mad boist’rous fool,
Nay worse, a woman’s fool;
Fool is the stuff, of which heaven makes a hero.

Dioc. A serpent ne’er becomes a flying dragon, Till he has eat a serpent[7].

Cre. Goes it there?  I understand thee; I must kill Adrastus.

Dioc. Or not enjoy your mistress: 
Eurydice and he are prisoners here,
But will not long be so:  This tell-tale ghost
Perhaps will clear ’em both.