Phor. To murder it.

OEdip. O more than savage! murder her own bowels, Without a cause!

Phor. There was a dreadful one, Which had foretold, that most unhappy son Should kill his father, and enjoy his mother.

OEdip. But one thing more. 
Jocasta told me, thou wert by the chariot
When the old king was slain:  Speak, I conjure thee,
For I shall never ask thee aught again,—­
What was the number of the assassinates?

Phor. The dreadful deed was acted but by one; And sure that one had much of your resemblance.

OEdip. ’Tis well!  I thank you, gods! ’tis wondrous well! 
Daggers, and poison!  O there is no need
For my dispatch:  And you, you merciless powers,
Hoard up your thunder-stones; keep, keep your bolts,
For crimes of little note. [Falls.

Adr. Help, Haemon, help, and bow him gently forward;
Chafe, chafe his temples:  How the mighty spirits,
Half-strangled with the damp his sorrows raised,
Struggle for vent!  But see, he breathes again,
And vigorous nature breaks through opposition.—­
How fares my royal friend?

OEdip. The worse for you. 
O barbarous men, and oh the hated light,
Why did you force me back, to curse the day;
To curse my friends; to blast with this dark breath
The yet untainted earth and circling air? 
To raise new plagues, and call new vengeance down,
Why did you tempt the gods, and dare to touch me? 
Methinks there’s not a hand that grasps this hell,
But should run up like flax all blazing fire. 
Stand from this spot, I wish you as my friends,
And come not near me, lest the gaping earth
Swallow you too.—­Lo, I am gone already.
                                   [Draws, and claps his Sword to his
                                    Breast, which ADRASTUS strikes
                                    away with his Foot.

Adr. You shall no more be trusted with your life:—­ Creon, Alcander, Haemon, help to hold him.

OEdip. Cruel Adrastus! wilt thou, Haemon, too? 
Are these the obligations of my friends? 
O worse than worst of my most barbarous foes! 
Dear, dear Adrastus, look with half an eye
On my unheard of woes, and judge thyself,
If it be fit that such a wretch should live! 
O, by these melting eyes, unused to weep,
With all the low submissions of a slave,
I do conjure thee, give my horrors way! 
Talk not of life, for that will make me rave: 
As well thou may’st advise a tortured wretch,
All mangled o’er from head to foot with wounds,
And his bones broke, to wait a better day.

Adr. My lord, you ask me things impossible; And I with justice should be thought your foe, To leave you in this tempest of your soul.

Tir. Though banished Thebes, in Corinth you may reign; The infernal powers themselves exact no more:  Calm then your rage, and once more seek the gods.