Oedipus the King



This translation by Ian Johnston of Vancouver Island University, Nanaimo, British Columbia, a revised version (2014) of an earlier translation (2007), has certain copyright restrictions.  For information please use the following link: Copyright.  For comments or question please contact Ian Johnston. Latest revisions made in May 2015.  

This text is available in the form of a Word file for those who would like to print it off as a small book.  There is no charge for these files.  For details, please use the following link: Publisher files. This translation is available in the form of a published paperback book from Richer Resources Publications.

For a catalogue of other translations by Ian Johnston, please use the following link: Index 


In the following text the numbers in square brackets refer to the Greek text; the numbers without brackets refer to the English text. The asterisks indicate links to explanatory notes inserted by the translator.

The translator would like to acknowledge the invaluable help provided by Sir Richard Jebb’s translation and commentary.

For an introductory lecture on Oedipus the King, please use the following link: Oedipus.


Sophocles (495 BC-405 BC) was a famous and successful Athenian writer of tragedies in his own lifetime. Of his 120 plays, only 7 have survived. Oedipus the King, also called Oedipus Tyrannos or Oedipus Rex, written around 420 BC, has long been regarded not only as his finest play but also as the purest and most powerful expression of Greek tragic drama.

Oedipus, a stranger to Thebes, became king of the city after the murder of king Laius, about fifteen or sixteen years before the start of the play. He was offered the throne because he was successful in saving the city from the Sphinx, an event referred to repeatedly in the text of the play. He married Laius’ widow, Jocasta, and had four children with her, two sons, Eteocles and Polyneices, and two daughters, Antigone and Ismene.




OEDIPUS: king of Thebes
PRIEST: the high priest of Thebes
CREON: Oedipus’ brother-in-law
CHORUS of Theban elders
TEIRESIAS: an old blind prophet
BOY: attendant on Teiresias
JOCASTA: wife of Oedipus, sister of Creon
MESSENGER: an old man
SERVANT: an old shepherd
SECOND MESSENGER: a servant of Oedipus
ANTIGONE: daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta, a child
ISMENE: daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta, a child
SERVANTS and ATTENDANTS on Oedipus and Jocasta

[The action takes place in Thebes in front of the royal palace. The main doors are directly facing the audience. There are altars beside the doors. A crowd of citizens carrying laurel branches garlanded with wool and led by the PRIEST has gathered in front of the altars, with some people sitting on the altar steps. OEDIPUS enters through the palace doors]

      My children, latest generation born from Cadmus,
      why are you sitting here with wreathed sticks
      in supplication to me, while the city
      fills with incense, chants, and cries of pain?
      Children, it would not be appropriate for me
      to learn of this from any other source,
      so I have come in person—I, Oedipus,
      whose fame all men acknowledge. But you there,
      old man, tell me—you seem to be the one
      who ought to speak for those assembled here.
                                            10         [10]
      What feeling brings you to me—fear or desire?
      You can be confident that I will help.
      I shall assist you willingly in every way.
      I would be a hard-hearted man indeed,
      if I did not pity suppliants like these.

      Oedipus, ruler of my native land,
      you see how people here of every age
      are crouching down around your altars,
      some fledglings barely strong enough to fly
      and others bent by age, with priests as well—                                   
      for I’m priest of Zeus—and these ones here,
      the pick of all our youth. The other groups
      sit in the market place with suppliant branches
      or else in front of Pallas’ two shrines,
      or where Ismenus prophesies with fire.
      For our city, as you yourself can see,
      is badly shaken—she cannot raise her head
      above the depths of so much surging death.
      Disease infects fruit blossoms in our land,
      disease infects our herds of grazing cattle,
      makes women in labour lose their children,
      and deadly pestilence, that fiery god,
      swoops down to blast the city, emptying
      the House of Cadmus, and fills black Hades                                                 
      with groans and howls. These children and myself
now sit here by your home, not because we think
      you’re equal to the gods. No. We judge you
      the first of men in what happens in this life
      and in our interactions with the gods.
      For you came here, to our Cadmeian city,
      and freed us from the tribute we were paying
      to that cruel singer—and yet you knew
      no more than we did and had not been taught.
      In their stories, the people testify
      how, with gods’ help, you gave us back our lives.
      So now, Oedipus, our king, most powerful
      in all men’s eyes, we’re here as suppliants,
      all begging you to find some help for us,
      either by listening to a heavenly voice,
      or learning from some other human being.
      For, in my view, men of experience
      provide advice that gives the best results.
      So now, you best of men, raise up our state.
      Act to consolidate your fame, for now,
      thanks to your eagerness in earlier days,
      the city celebrates you as its saviour.
      Don’t let our memory of your ruling here
      declare that we were first set right again
      and later fell. No. Restore our city,
      so that it stands secure. In those times past                                      
      you brought us joy—and with good omens, too.
      Be that same man today. If you’re to rule
      as you are doing now, better to be king
      in a land of men than in a desert.
      An empty ship or city wall is nothing
      if no men share a life together there.

      My poor children, I know why you have come—
      I am not ignorant of what you yearn for.
      For I understand that you are ill, and yet,
      sick as you are, there is not one of you                                               
      whose illness equals mine. Your agony
      comes to each one of you as his alone,
      a special pain for him and no one else.
      But here in my heart, I sorrow for myself,
      and for the city, and for you—all together.
      You are not rousing me from a deep sleep.
      You must know I’ve been shedding many tears
      and, in my wandering thoughts, exploring
      many pathways. After a careful search
      I grasped the only help that I could find                                             
      and acted on it. So I have sent away
      my brother-in-law, son of Menoeceus,
      Creon, to Pythian Apollo’s shrine,                                                                  
      to learn from him what I might do or say
      to save our city. But when I count the days—
      the time he’s been away—I now worry
      what he’s doing. For he’s been gone too long,
      well past the time he should have taken.
      But when he comes, I’ll be a wicked man
      if I do not act on all the god reveals.

      What you have said is most appropriate,
      for these men here have just informed me
      that Creon is approaching.

                                                         Lord Apollo,                                                      
      as he returns may fine shining fortune,
      bright as his countenance, attend on him.

      It seems the news he brings is good—if not,
      he would not wear that wreath around his head,
      a laurel thickly packed with berries.

      We’ll know soon enough—he’s within earshot.

[Enter CREON. OEDIPUS calls to him as he approaches]

      My royal kinsman, child of Menoeceus,                                                          100
      what message do you bring us from the god?

Good news, I tell you.
If things work out well,
then these troubles, so difficult to bear,
will end up bringing us great benefits.

      What is the oracle? So far your words
      inspire in me no confidence or fear.

      If you wish to hear the news in public,
      I’m prepared to speak. Or we could step inside.

      Speak out to everyone. The grief I feel
      for these citizens is even greater                                                          
      than any pain I feel for my own life.

      Then let me report what I heard from the god.
      Lord Phoebus clearly orders us to drive away
      the polluting stain this land has harboured.
      It will not be healed if we keep nursing it.

      What sort of cleansing? And this disaster—
      how did it happen?

                                                              By banishment—                                       
      or atone for murder by shedding blood again,
      for blood brings on the storm which blasts our state.

      And the one whose fate the god revealed—                                        
      what sort of man is he?

                                                   Before you came, my lord,
      to steer our ship of state, Laius ruled this land.

      I have heard that, but I never saw the man.

      Laius was killed. And now the god is clear:
      those murderers, he tells us, must be punished,
      whoever they may be.

                                                     And where are they?
      In what country? Where am I to find a trace
      of this ancient crime? It will be hard to track.

      Here in Thebes, so said the god. What is sought
      is found, but what is overlooked escapes.
                                                      130        [110]

      When Laius fell in bloody death, where was he—
      at home, or in his fields, or in another land?

      He was abroad, on his way to Delphi—
      that’s what he told us. He began the trip,
      but did not return.

                                                  Was there no messenger—
      no companion who made the journey with him
      and witnessed what took place—a person
      who might provide some knowledge men could use?

      They all died—except for one who was afraid
      and ran away. There was only one thing                                             
      he could inform us of with confidence
      about the things he saw.

                                                                   What was that?
      We might get somewhere if we had one fact—
      we could find many things, if we possessed
      some slender hope to get us going.

      He told us it was robbers who attacked them—
      not just a single man, a gang of them—
      they came on with force and killed him.

      How would a thief have dared to do this,
      unless he had financial help from Thebes?

      That’s what we guessed. But once Laius was dead
      we were in trouble, so no one sought revenge.

      When the ruling king had fallen in this way,
      what bad trouble blocked your path, preventing you
      from looking into it?

                                                                It was the Sphinx—                                 
      she sang her cryptic song and so forced us
      to put aside something we found obscure
      to look into the problem we now faced.

      Then I will start afresh, and once again
      shed light on darkness. It is most fitting                                            
      that Apollo demonstrates his care
      for the dead man, and worthy of you, too.
      And so you’ll see how I will work with you,
      as is right, seeking vengeance for this land,
      as well as for the god. This polluting stain
      I will remove, not for some distant friends,
      but for myself. For whoever killed this man
      may soon enough desire to turn his hand
      to punish me in the same way, as well.
      Thus, in avenging Laius, I serve myself.
      But now, my children, quickly as you can
      stand up from these altar steps and raise
      your suppliant branches. Someone must call
      the Theban people to assemble here.
      I’ll do everything I can. With the god’s help
      this will all come to light successfully,
      or else will prove our common ruin.

[OEDIPUS and CREON go into the palace]

      Let us get up, children. For this man
      has willingly declared just what we came for.
      And may Phoebus, who sent this oracle,
      come as our saviour and end our sickness.


                        O sweet speaking voice of Zeus,
       you have come to glorious Thebes from golden Pytho
                            but what is your intent?
       My fearful heart twists on the rack and shakes with fear.
                  O Delian healer, for whom we cry aloud
                           in holy awe, what obligation
              will you demand from me, a thing unknown
               or now renewed with the revolving years?
                Immortal voice, O child of golden Hope,
                                     speak to me!

                First I call on you, Athena the immortal,
               daughter of Zeus, and on your sister, too,
                  Artemis, who guards our land and sits
          on her glorious round throne in our market place,
             and on Phoebus, who shoots from far away.
                  O you three guardians against death,
                                    appear to me!
                 If before now you have ever driven off
                    a fiery plague to keep disaster                                                
                     from the city and have banished it,
                      then come to us this time as well!

                  Alas, the pains I bear are numberless—
                    my people now all sick with plague,
                      our minds can find no weapons
               to help with our defence. Now the offspring
                 of our splendid earth no longer grow,
                nor do our women crying out in labour
             get their relief from a living new-born child.
          As you can see—one by one they swoop away,
          off to the shores of the evening god, like birds
                faster than fire which no one can resist.

         Our city dies—we’ve lost count of all the dead.
           Her sons lie in the dirt unpitied, unlamented.
      Corpses spread the pestilence, while youthful wives
             and grey-haired mothers on the altar steps
               wail everywhere and cry in supplication,
                 seeking to relieve their agonizing pain.
                     Their solemn chants ring out—
                 they mingle with the voices of lament.
                          O Zeus’ golden daughter,
                      send your support and strength,
                           your lovely countenance!

               And that ravenous Ares, god of killing,                                                 [190]
              who now consumes me as he charges on
          with no bronze shield but howling battle cries,
        let him turn his back and quickly leave this land,
                with a fair following wind to carry him
                 to the great chamber of Amphitrite
                   or inhospitable waves of Thrace.
5                                             230
             For if destruction does not come at night,
               then day arrives to see it does its work.
            O you who wield that mighty flash of fire,
               O father Zeus, with your lighting blast
                               let Ares be destroyed!

         O Lycean lord, how I wish those arrows
            from the golden string of your bent bow
        with their all-conquering force would wing out
               to champion us against our enemy,
            and I pray for those blazing fires of Artemis                                         240
         with which she races through the Lycian hills.
           I call the god who binds his hair with gold,
             the one whose name our country shares,
        the one to whom the Maenads shout their cries,
                  Dionysus with his radiant face—
          may he come to us with his flaming torchlight,
                         our ally against Ares,
                  a god dishonoured among gods.

[Enter OEDIPUS from the palace]

      You pray. But if you listen now to me,
      you’ll get your wish. Hear what I have to say                                       
      and treat your own disease—then you may hope
      to find relief from your distress. I speak
      as one who is a stranger to the story,
      a stranger to the crime. If I alone
      were tracking down this act, I’d not get far
      without a single clue. But as things stand,
      for it was after the event that I became
      a citizen of Thebes, I now proclaim
      the following to all of you Cadmeians:
      Whoever among you knows the man it was                                       
      who murdered Laius, son of Labdacus,
      I order him to reveal it all to me.
      And if the killer is afraid, I tell him
      to avoid the danger of the major charge
      by speaking out against himself. If so,
      he will be sent out from this land unhurt
      and undergo no further punishment.
      If someone knows the killer is a stranger,
      from some other state, let him not stay mute.
      As well as a reward, he’ll earn my thanks.
      But if he remains quiet, if anyone,
      through fear, hides himself or a friend of his
      against my orders, here’s what I shall do—
      so listen to my words. For I decree
      that no one in this land, in which I rule
      as your own king, shall give that killer shelter
      or talk to him, whoever he may be,
      or act in concert with him during prayers,
      or sacrifice, or sharing lustral water.
8                                                             [240]
      Ban him from your homes, every one of you,                                               280
      for he is our pollution, as the Pythian god
      In this, I’m acting as an ally of the god
      and also of dead Laius. And I pray
      whoever the man is who did this crime,
      one unknown person acting on his own
      or with companions, the worst of agonies
      will wear out his wretched life. I pray, too,
      that, if he should become an honoured guest
      in my own home and with my knowledge,
                                                     290       [250]
      I may suffer all those things I’ve just called down
      upon the killers. And I urge you now
      to make sure all these orders take effect,
      for my sake, for the sake of the god,
      and for our barren, godless, ruined land.
      For in this matter, even if a god
      were not urging us, it would not be right
      for you to simply leave things as they are
      and not to purify the murder of a man
      who was so noble and who was your king.
      You should have looked into it. But now I
      possess the ruling power which Laius held
      in earlier days.
I have his bed and wife—
      she would have borne his children, if his hopes
      to have a son had not been disappointed.
      Children from a common mother might have linked
      Laius and myself. But as it turned out,
      Fate swooped down onto his head. So now,
      I’ll fight on his behalf, as if this matter
      concerned my own father, and I will strive                                         
      to do everything I can to find him,
      the man who spilled his blood, and thus avenge
      the son of Labdacus and Polydorus,
      of Cadmus and Agenor from old times.9
      As for those who do not follow what I urge,
      I pray the gods send them no fertile land,
      no, nor any children in their women’s wombs—
      may they all perish in our present fate
      or one more hateful still. To you others,
      you Cadmeians who support my efforts,
      may Justice, our ally, and all the gods
      attend on us with kindness all our days.

      My lord, since you extend your oath to me,
      I will say this. I am not the murderer,
      nor can I tell you who the killer is.
      As for what you’re seeking, it’s for Apollo,
      who launched this search, to state who did it.

      That is well said. But no man has power                                                       
      to force the gods to speak against their will.

      May I then suggest what seems to me                                                  
      the next best course of action?

                                                               You may indeed,
      and if there is a third course, too, don’t hesitate
      to let me know.

                                                    Our lord Teiresias,
      I know, can see into things, like lord Apollo.
      From him, my king, a man investigating this
      might well find out clear details of the crime.

      I’ve taken care of that—it’s not something
      I could overlook. At Creon’s urging,
      I have dispatched two messengers to him
      and have been wondering for some time now                                   
      why he has not come.

                                                           Apart from that,
      there are rumours—but inconclusive ones
      from a long time ago.

                               What kind of rumours?
      I’m looking into every story.

                                                              It was said
      that Laius was killed by certain travellers.

      Yes, I heard as much. But no one has seen
      the one who did it.

                                                                 Well, if the killer
      has any fears, once he hears your curses on him,
      he will not hold back, for they are serious.

      When a man has no fear of doing the act,
      he’s not afraid of words.

                                                  No, not in the case
      where no one stands there to convict him.
      But at last Teiresias is being guided here,
      our god-like prophet, in whom truth resides
      more so than in all other men.

[Enter TEIRESIAS led by a small BOY]

      you who understand all things—what can be taught
      and what cannot be spoken of, what goes on
      in heaven and here on the earth—you know,
      although you cannot see, how sick our state is.
      And so we find in you alone, great seer,                                                           360
      our shield and saviour.
For Phoebus Apollo,
      in case you have not heard the news, has sent us
      an answer to our question: the only cure
      for this infecting pestilence is to find
      the men who murdered Laius and kill them
      or else expel them from this land as exiles.
      So do not withhold from us your prophecies
      from voices of the birds or by some other means.
      Save this city and yourself. Rescue me.
      Deliver us from all pollution by the dead.
      We are in your hands. For a mortal man
      the finest labour he can do is help
      with all his power other human beings.

      Alas, alas! How dreadful it can be
      to have wisdom when it brings no benefit
      to the man possessing it. This I knew,
      but it had slipped my mind. Otherwise,
      I would not have journeyed here.

      What is wrong? You have come, but seem distressed.

      Let me go home. You must bear your burden                                    
380       [320]
      to the very end, and I will carry mine,
      if you’ll agree with me.

                                       What you are saying
      is not customary and shows little love
      toward the city state which nurtured you,
      if you deny us your prophetic voice.

      I see your words are also out of place.
      I do not speak for fear of doing the same.

      If you know something, then, by the gods,
      do not turn away. We are your suppliants—
      all of us—we bend our knees to you.

      You are all ignorant. I will not reveal
      the troubling things inside me, nor will I state
      they are your griefs as well.

                                                     What are you saying?
      Do you know and will not say? Do you intend
      to betray me and destroy the city?

      I will cause neither me nor you distress.
      Why do you vainly question me like this?
      You will not learn a thing from me.

      You most disgraceful of disgraceful men!
      You would move something made of stone to rage!
      Will you not speak out? Will your stubbornness
      never have an end?

                                     You blame my nature,
      but do not see the temper you possess.
      Instead, you’re finding fault with me.

      What man who listened to these words of yours
      would not be enraged—you insult the city!

      Yet events will still unfold, for all my silence.

      Since they will come, you must inform me.

      I will say nothing more. Fume on about it,
      if you wish, as fiercely as you can.

      I will. In my anger I will not conceal
      just what I make of this. You should know
      I get the feeling you conspired in the act
      and played your part, as much as you could do,
      short of killing him with your own hands.
      If you could use your eyes, I would have said
      that you had done this work all by yourself.

      Is that so? Then I would ask you to stand by                                                
      the very words which you yourself proclaimed
      and from now on not speak to these men or me.
      For the accursed polluter of this land is you.

      You dare to utter shameful words like this?
      Do you think you can get away with it?

      I am getting away with it. The truth
      within me makes me strong.

                                   Who taught you this?
      It could not have been your craft.

                                                                      You did.
      I did not want to speak, but you incited me.

      What do you mean? Speak it again,
      so I can understand you more precisely.

      Did you not grasp my words before,                                                    
      or are you trying to test me with your question?

      I did not fully understand your words.
      Tell me again.

                               I say that you yourself
      are the very man you’re looking for.

      That’s twice you’ve stated that disgraceful lie—
      something you’ll regret.

                                     Shall I tell you more,
      so you can grow even more enraged?

      As much as you desire. It will be useless.

      I say that with your dearest family,
      unknown to you, you are living in disgrace.
      You have no idea how bad things are.

      Do you really think you can just speak out,
      say things like this, and still remain unpunished?

      Yes, I can, if the truth has any strength.

      It does, but not for you. Truth is not in you—                                              
      for your ears, your mind, your eyes are blind!

      You are a wretched fool to use harsh words
      which all men soon enough will use to curse you.

      You live in endless darkness of the night,
      so you can never injure me or any man                                               
      who can glimpse daylight.

                                            It is not your fate
      to fall because of me. Lord Apollo
      will make that happen. He will be enough.

      Is this something Creon has devised,
      or is it your invention?

                                                Creon is no threat.
      You have made this trouble on your own.

      O wealth and ruling power, skill after skill                                                    
      surpassing all in life’s rich rivalries,
      how much envy you must carry with you,
      if, for this kingly office—which the city                                             
      gave me, for I did not seek it out—
      Creon, my old trusted family friend,
      has secretly conspired to overthrow me
      and paid off a double-dealing quack like this,
      a crafty bogus priest, who can only see
      his own advantage, who in his special art
      is absolutely blind. Come on, tell me                                                             
      how you have ever given evidence
      of your wise prophecy. When the Sphinx,
      that singing bitch, was here, you said nothing                                   
      to set the people free. Why not? Her riddle
      was not something the first man to stroll along
      could solve—a prophet was required. And there
      the people saw your knowledge was no use—
      nothing from birds or picked up from the gods.
      But then I came, Oedipus, who knew nothing.
      Yet I finished her off, using my wits
      rather than relying on birds. That’s the man
      you want to overthrow, hoping, no doubt,
      to stand up there with Creon, once he’s king.
                                              480       [400]
      But I think you and your conspirator in this
      will regret trying to drive me from the state.
      If you did not look so old, you’d find out
      the punishment your arrogance deserves.

      To us it sounds as if Teiresias
      has spoken in anger, and, Oedipus,
      you have done so, too. That isn’t what we need.
      Instead we should be looking into this:
      How can we best act on the god’s decree?

      You may be king, but I do have the right                                            
      to answer you—and I control that right,
      for I am not your slave. I serve Apollo,                                                           
      and thus will never stand with Creon,
      signed up as his man. So I say this to you,
      since you have chosen to insult my blindness—
      you have your eyesight, and you do not see
      how miserable you are, or where you live,
      or who it is who shares your household.
      Do you know the family you come from?
      Without your knowledge you have turned into                                 
      the enemy of your own relatives,
      those in the world below and those up here,
      and the dreadful scourge of that two-edged curse
      of father and mother will one day drive you
      from this land in exile. Those eyes of yours,
      which now can see so clearly, will be dark.
      What harbour will not echo with your cries?
      Where on Cithaeron will they not soon be heard,
      once you have learned the truth about the wedding
      by which you sailed into this royal house—                                       
      a lovely voyage, but the harbour’s doomed?
      You have no notion of the quantity
      of other troubles which will render you
      and your own children equals. So go on—
      keep insulting Creon and my prophecies,
      for among all living mortals nobody
      will be destroyed more wretchedly than you.

      Must I tolerate this insolence from him?
      Get out, and may the plague get rid of you!
      Off with you! Now! Turn your back and go!
      And don’t come back here to my home again.

      I would not have come, but you summoned me.

      I did not know you would speak so stupidly.
      If I had, you would have waited a long time
      before I called you here.

                                                 I was born like this.
      You think I am a fool, but to your parents,
      the ones who made you, I was wise enough.

      Wait! My parents? Who was my father?

      This day will reveal that and destroy you.

      Everything you speak is all so cryptic—                                              
      like a riddle.

                                           Well, in solving riddles,                                               
      are you not the best there is?

                                         Mock my excellence,
      but you will find out I am truly great.

      That success of yours has been your ruin.

      I do not care, if I have saved the city.

      I will go now. Boy, lead me away.

      Yes, let him guide you back. You’re in the way.
      If you stay, you will provoke me. Once you’re gone,
      you won’t annoy me further.

                                                     I’m going.
      But first I shall tell you why I came.
      I do not fear the face of your displeasure—
      there is no way you can destroy me. I tell you,
      the man you have been seeking all this time,
      while proclaiming threats and issuing orders
      about the one who murdered Laius—
      that man is here. According to reports,
      he is a stranger who lives here in Thebes.
      But he will prove to be a native Theban.
      From that change he will derive no pleasure.
      He will be blind, although he now can see.
      He will be a poor, although he now is rich.
      He will set off for a foreign country,
      groping the ground before him with a stick.
      And he will turn out to be the brother
      of the children in his house—their father, too,
      both at once, and the husband and the son
      of the very woman who gave birth to him.
      He sowed the same womb as his father
      and murdered him. Go in and think on this.
      If you discover I have spoken falsely,
      you can say I lack all skill in prophecy.

[Exit TEIRESIAS led off by the BOY. OEDIPUS turns and goes back into the palace]

      Speaking from the Delphic rock
      the oracular voice intoned a name.
      But who is the man, the one
      who with his blood-red hands
      has done unspeakable brutality?
      The time has come for him to flee—
      to move his powerful foot
      more swiftly than those hooves
      of horses riding like a storm.                                                                                  570
      Against him Zeus’ son now springs,
      armed with lightning fire and leading on
      the inexorable and terrifying Furies.

      From the snowy peaks of Mount Parnassus
      the message has just flashed, ordering all
      to seek the one whom no one knows.
      Like a wild bull he wanders now,
      hidden in the untamed wood,
      through rocks and caves, alone
      with his despair on joyless feet,
      keeping his distance from that doom
      uttered at earth’s central navel stone.                                                            
      But that fatal oracle still lives,
      hovering above his head forever.

      That wise interpreter of prophecies
      stirs up my fears, unsettling dread.
      I cannot approve of what he said
      and I cannot deny it.
      I am confused. What shall I say?
      My hopes are fluttering here and there,
      with no clear glimpse of past or future.                                              
      I have never heard of any quarrelling,
      past or present, between those two,
      the house of Labdacus and Polybus’ son,                                                      
      which could give me evidence enough
      to undermine the fame of Oedipus,
      as he seeks vengeance for the unsolved murder
      in the family line of Labdacus.

      Apollo and Zeus are truly wise—
      they understand what humans do.
      But there is no sure way to ascertain                                                    600
      if human prophets grasp things any more
      than I do, although in wisdom one man                                                                       [500]
      may leave another far behind.

      But until I see the words confirmed,
      I will not approve of any man
      who censures Oedipus, for it was clear
      when that winged Sphinx went after him
      he was a wise man then. We witnessed it.
      He passed the test and endeared himself
      to all the city. So in my thinking now                                                   610       [510]
      he never will be guilty of a crime.

[Enter CREON]

      You citizens, I have just discovered
      that Oedipus, our king, has levelled charges
      against me, disturbing allegations.
      That I cannot bear, so I have come here.
      In these present troubles, if he believes
      that he has suffered injury from me,
      in word or deed, then I have no desire
      to keep on living into ripe old age
      still bearing his reproach. For me                                                         
      the injury produced by this report
      is not a single isolated matter—                                                                                              [520]
      no, it has the greatest scope of all,
      if I end up being called a wicked man
      here in the city, a bad citizen,
      by you and by my friends.

                                        Perhaps he charged you
      spurred on by the rash power of his rage,
      rather than his mind’s true judgment.

      Was it publicized that my persuasion
      convinced Teiresias to utter lies?

      That’s what was said. I have no idea
      just what that meant.

                                                           Did he accuse me
      and announce the charges with a steady gaze,
      in a normal state of mind?

                                                  I do not know.                                                         
      What those in power do I do not see.
      But he’s approaching from the palace—
      here he comes in person.

[Enter OEDIPUS from the palace]

                                                 You! How did you get here?
      Have you grown so bold-faced that you now come
      to my own home—you who are obviously
      the murderer of the man whose house it was,                                    
      a thief who clearly wants to steal my throne?
      Come, in the name of all the gods, tell me this—
      did you plan to do it because you thought
      I was a coward or a fool? Or did you think
      I would not learn about your actions
      as they crept up on me with such deceit—
      or that, if I knew, I could not deflect them?
      This attempt of yours, is it not madness—
      to chase after the king’s place without friends,
      without a horde of men, to seek a goal                                                
      which only gold or factions could attain?

      Will you listen to me? It’s your turn now
      to let me make a suitable response.
      Once you hear that, then judge me for yourself.

      You are a clever talker. But from you
      I will learn little. I know you now—
      a troublemaker, an enemy of mine.

      At least first listen to what I have to say.

      Do not bother trying to convince me
      that you have done no wrong.

                                  If you think being stubborn                                        
      and forgetting common sense is wise,
      then you’re not thinking as you should.

      And if you think you can try to harm
      a man who is a relative of yours
      and escape without a penalty
      then you have not been thinking wisely.

      I agree. What you’ve just said makes sense.
      So tell me the nature of the damage
      you claim you’re suffering because of me.

      Did you or did you not persuade me                                                   
      to send for Teiresias, that prophet?

And I’d still give you the same advice.

      How long is it since Laius . . . [pauses]

                                                              Did what?
      What’s Laius got to do with anything?

      . . . since Laius was carried off and disappeared,
      since he was killed so brutally?

                                                              A long time—
      many years have passed since then.

                                                    At that time,
      was Teiresias as skilled in prophecy?

      Then, as now, he was honoured for his wisdom.

      And back then did he ever mention me?                                            

      No, never—not while I was with him.

      Did you not investigate the killing?

      Yes, of course we did. But we found nothing.

      Why did this man, this wise man, not speak up?

      I do not know. And when I don’t know something,
      I like to hold my tongue.

                                                  You know enough—                                               
      at least you understand enough to say . . .

      What? If I really do know something
      I will not deny it.

                                                                               If Teiresias
      were not working with you, he would not name me                         
      as the one who murdered Laius.

                                                          If he says this,
      well, you’re the one who knows. But I think
      the time has come for me to question you
      the way that you’ve been questioning me.

      Ask whatever you wish. You’ll never prove
      that I’m the murderer.

                                               Then tell me this—
      are you not married to my sister?

      Since you ask me, yes. I don’t deny that.

      And you two rule this land as equals?

      Whatever she desires, she gets from me.                                            
700       [580]

      And am I not third, equal to you both?

      That’s what makes your friendship so deceitful.

      No, not if you think this through, as I do.
      First, consider this. In your view, would anyone
      prefer to rule and have to cope with fear
      rather than live in peace, carefree and safe,
      if his powers were the same? I, for one,
      have no natural desire to be king
      in preference to performing royal acts.
      The same is true of any other man                                                        
      whose understanding grasps things properly.
      For now I get everything I want from you,
      but without the fear. If I were king myself,
      I’d be doing many things against my will.
      So how can being a king be sweeter to me
      than royal power without anxiety?
      I am not yet so mistaken in my mind
      that I want things which bring no benefits.
      Now all men are my friends and wish me well,
      and those who seek to get something from you                                 720
      now flatter me, since I’m the one who brings
      success in what they want. So why would I
      give up such benefits for something else?
      A mind that’s wise will not turn treacherous.
      It’s not my nature to love such policies.
      And if another man pursued such things,
      I would not work with him. I could not bear to.
      If you want proof of this, then go to Delphi.
      Ask the prophet if I brought back to you
      exactly what was said. At that point,
      if you discover I have planned something,
      that I’ve conspired with Teiresias,
      then arrest me and have me put to death,
      not merely on your own authority,
      but on mine as well, a double judgment.
      Do not condemn me on an unproved charge.
      It’s not fair to judge these things by guesswork,
      to assume bad men are good or good men bad.
      I say a man who throws away a noble friend
      is like a man who parts with his own life,                                            
      the thing most dear to him. Give it some time.
      Then you will see clearly, since only time
      can fully validate a man who’s true.
      A bad man is exposed in just one day.

      For a man concerned about being killed,
      my lord, he has spoken eloquently.
      Those who are unreliable give rash advice.

      If some conspirator moves against me,
      in secret and with speed, I must be quick
      to make my counter plans. If I just rest                                              
      and wait for him to act, then he’ll succeed
      in what he wants to do, and I’ll be finished.

      What do you want—to exile me from here?

I want you to die, not just run off—
      so I can demonstrate what envy means.

      You are determined not to change your mind
      or listen to me?

                                 You’ll not convince me,
      for there’s no way that I can trust you.

      I can see that you’ve become unbalanced.

      I’m sane enough to defend my interests.                                            

      You should be protecting mine as well.

      But you’re a treacherous man. It’s your nature.

      What if you’re wrong?

                                          I still have to govern.

      Not if you do it badly.

                                                         O Thebes—
      my city!

                                   I, too, have some rights in Thebes—                                 
      it is not yours alone.

[The palace doors open]

                                    My lords, an end to this.
      I see Jocasta coming from the palace,
      and just in time. With her assistance
      you should bring this quarrel to a close.

[Enter JOCASTA from the palace]

      You foolish men, why are you arguing                                                
      in such a stupid way? With our land so sick,
      aren’t you ashamed to start a private fight?
      You, Oedipus, go in the house, and you,
      Creon, return to yours. Why inflate
      a trivial matter into something huge?

      Sister, your husband Oedipus intends
      to punish me in one of two dreadful ways—                                                
      to banish me from my fathers’ country
      or arrest me and then have me killed.

                                                         That’s right.
      Lady, I caught him committing treason,
      an vicious crime against me personally.

      Let me not prosper but die a man accursed,
      if I have done what you accuse me of.

      for the sake of the gods, trust him in this.
      Respect that oath he made before all heaven—
      do it for my sake and for those around you.

      I beg you, my lord, consent to this—
      agree with her.                                                                                                     

                                                       What is it then
      you’re asking me to do?

                                                   Pay Creon due respect.
      He has not been foolish in the past, and now                                    
      that oath he’s sworn has power.

                                                        Are you aware
      just what you’re asking?

I understand.

      Then tell me clearly what you mean to say.

      You should not accuse a friend of yours
      and thus dishonour him with a mere story
      which may be false, when he has sworn an oath
      and therefore could be subject to a curse.

      By this point you should clearly understand,
      what you are doing when you request this—
      seeking to exile me from Thebes or kill me.

      No, no, by sacred Helios, the god                                                                   
      who stands pre-eminent before the rest!
      May I die the most miserable of deaths,
      abandoned by the gods and by my friends,
      if I have ever harboured such a thought!
      But the destruction of our land wears down
      my troubled heart—and so does this quarrel,
      if you two add new problems to the ones
      which have for so long been afflicting us.

      Let him go, then, even though it means                                               810
      I must be killed or sent from here in exile,
      forced out in disgrace. I have been moved
      to act compassionately by what you said,
      not by Creon’s words. But if he stays here,
      he will be hateful to me.

                                        You are stubborn—
      obviously unhappy to concede,
      and when you lose your temper, you go too far.
      But men like that find it most difficult
      to tolerate themselves. In that there’s justice.

      Why not go—just leave me alone?

                                                                I’ll leave—                                       
      since I see you do not understand me.
      But these men here know I’m a reasonable man.

[Exit CREON away from the palace, leaving OEDIPUS and JOCASTA and the CHORUS on stage]

      Lady, will you escort our king inside?

      Yes, once I have learned what happened here.                                             

                                                                          They talked—
      their words gave rise to uninformed suspicions,
      but even unjust words inflict sore wounds.

      From both of them?


                                                                  What caused it?

      With our country already in distress,
      it is enough, it seems to me, enough
      to leave things as they are.

                                                                       Now do you see                       
      the point you’ve reached thanks to your noble wish
      to dissolve and dull what I felt in my heart?

      My lord, I have declared it more than once,                                                  
      so you must know it would have been quite mad
      if I abandoned you, who, when this land,
      my cherished Thebes, was in great trouble,
      set it right again and who, in these harsh times
     should prove a trusty and successful guide.

      By all the gods, my king, please let me know
      why in this present matter you now feel                                             
      such unremitting rage.

                                                 To you I’ll speak, lady,
      since I respect you more than I do these men.
      It’s Creon’s fault. He conspired against me.

      In this quarrel what was said? Tell me.

      Creon claims that I’m the murderer—
      that I killed Laius.

                                 Does he know this first hand,
      or has he picked it up from someone else?

He set up that treasonous prophet.
      What he says himself all sounds quite innocent.

      All right, forget about those things you’ve said.                                
      Listen to me, and ease your mind with this—
      no human being has skill in prophecy.
      I’ll show you why with this example.
      King Laius once received a oracle.
      I won’t say it came straight from Apollo,
      but it was from those who do assist the god.
      It said Laius was fated to be killed
      by a child of ours, one born to him and me.
      Now, at least according to the story,
      one day Laius was killed by foreigners,
      by robbers, at a place where three roads meet.
      Besides, before our child was three days old,
      Laius pinned his ankles tight together
      and ordered other men to throw him out
      on a mountain rock where no one ever goes.
      And so Apollo’s plan that he’d become
      the one who killed his father didn’t work,
      and Laius never suffered what he feared,
      that his own son would be his murderer,
      although that’s what the oracle had claimed.
      So don’t concern yourself with prophecies.
      Whatever gods intend to bring about
      they themselves make known quite easily.

      Lady, as I listen to these words of yours,
      my soul is shaken, my mind confused . . .

      Why do you say that? What’s worrying you?

      I thought I heard you say that Laius
      was murdered at a place where three roads meet.

      That’s what was said and people still believe.

      Where is this place? Where did it happen?                                        

      In a land called Phocis. Two roads lead there—
      one from Delphi and one from Daulia.

      How long is it since these events took place?

      The story was reported in the city
      just before you took over royal power
      here in Thebes.

                         O Zeus, what have you done?
      What have you planned for me?

                                                                  What is it,
      Oedipus? Why is your spirit so troubled?

                                                               Not yet,                                                        
      no questions yet.
Tell me this—Laius,
      how tall was he? How old a man?

      He was big—with hair starting to turn white.
      In shape he was not all that unlike you.

      The worse for me! I may have set myself
      under a dreadful curse without my knowledge!

      What do you mean? As I look at you, my king,
      I start to tremble.

                                                      I am afraid,
      full of terrible fears the prophet sees.
      But you can reveal this better if you now
      will tell me one thing more.

                                                  I’m shaking,
      but if you ask me, I will answer you.

      Did Laius have a small escort with him                                                          
      or a troop of soldiers, like a royal king?

      Five men, including a herald, went with him.
      A carriage carried Laius. 

                                                               Alas! Alas!
      It’s all too clear! Lady, who told you this?

      A slave—the only one who got away.

      He came back here.

                                          Is there any chance
      he’s in our household now?


      Once he returned and understood that you
      had now assumed the power of slaughtered Laius,
      he clasped my hands, begged me to send him off
      to where our animals graze in the fields,
      so he could be as far away as possible
      from the sight of town. And so I sent him.
      He was a slave but he’d earned my gratitude.
      He deserved an even greater favour.

      I’d like him to return back here to us,
      and quickly, too.

                                                         That can be arranged—
      but why’s that something you would want to do?

      Lady, I’m afraid I may have said too much.                                        
      That’s why I want to see him here before me.

      Then he will be here. But now, my lord,
      I deserve to know why you are so distressed.                                                 [770]

      My forebodings now have grown so great
      I will not keep them from you, for who is there
      I should confide in rather than in you
      about such a twisted turn of fortune.
      My father was Polybus of Corinth,
      my mother Merope, a Dorian.
      There I was regarded as the finest man                                               
      in all the city, until, as chance would have it,
      something most astonishing took place,
      though it was not worth what it made me to do.
      At dinner there a man who was quite drunk
      from too much wine began to shout at me,
      claiming I was not my father’s real son.
      That troubled me, but for a day at least
      I said nothing, though it was difficult.
      The next day I went to ask my parents,
      my father and mother. They were angry                                             
      at the man who had insulted them this way,
      so I was reassured. But nonetheless,
      the accusation always troubled me—
      the story had become known everywhere.
      And so I went in secret off to Delphi.
      I didn’t tell my mother or my father.
      Apollo sent me back without an answer,
      so I didn’t learn what I had come to find.
      But when he spoke he uttered monstrous things,
      strange terrors and horrific miseries—                                                
     my fate was to defile my mother’s bed,
      to bring forth to men a human family
      that people could not bear to look upon,
      and slay the father who engendered me.
      When I heard that, I ran away from Corinth.
      From then on I thought of it just as a place
      beneath the stars. I went to other lands,
      so I would never see that prophecy fulfilled,
the abomination of my evil fate.
      In my travelling I came across that place                                             
      in which you say your king was murdered.
      And now, lady, I will tell you the truth.
      As I was on the move, I passed close by
      a spot where three roads meet, and in that place
      I met a herald and a horse-drawn carriage,
      with a man inside, just as you described.
      The guide there tried to force me off the road—
      and the old man, too, got personally involved.
      In my rage, I lashed out at the driver,
      who was shoving me aside. The old man,                                           
      seeing me walking past him in the carriage,
      kept his eye on me, and with his double whip
      struck me on the head, right here on top.
      Well, I retaliated in good measure—
      with the staff I held I hit him a quick blow
      and knocked him from his carriage to the road.
      He lay there on his back. Then I killed them all.
      If that stranger was somehow linked to Laius,
      who is now more unfortunate than me?

      What man could be more hateful to the gods?
      No stranger and no citizen can welcome him
      into their lives or speak to him. Instead,
      they must keep him from their doors, a curse
      I laid upon myself. With these hands of mine,
      these killer’s hands, I now contaminate
      the dead man’s bed. Am I not depraved?
      Am I not utterly abhorrent?
      Now I must fly into exile and there,
      a fugitive, never see my people,
      never set foot in my native land again—                                              
      or else I must get married to my mother
      and kill my father, Polybus, who raised me,
      the man who gave me life. If anyone
      claimed this came from some malevolent god,
      would he not be right? O you gods,
      you pure, blessed gods, may I not see that day!
      Let me rather vanish from the sight of men,
      before I see a fate like that engulf me!

      My lord, to us these things are ominous.
      But you must sustain your hope until you hear                                 
      the servant who was present at the time.

      I do have some hope left, at least enough
      to wait for the man we’ve summoned from the fields.

      Once he comes, what do you hope to hear?

      I’ll tell you. If we discover what he says
      matches what you say, then I’ll escape disaster.                                          

      What was so remarkable in what I said?

      You said that in his story the man claimed
      Laius was murdered by a band of thieves.
      If he still says that there were several men,                                        
      then I was not the killer, since one man
      could never be mistaken for a crowd.
      But if he says it was a single man,
      the scales of justice guilt sink down on me.

      Well, that’s certainly what he reported then.
      He cannot now withdraw what he once said.
      The whole city heard him, not just me alone.
      But even if he changes that old news,
      he cannot ever demonstrate, my lord,
      that Laius’ murder fits the prophecy.
      For Apollo clearly said the man would die
      at the hands of an infant born from me.
      Now, how did that unhappy son of ours
      kill Laius, when he’d perished long before?
      As far as these predictions go, from now on
      I would not look for confirmation anywhere.

      You’re right in what you say. But nonetheless,
      send for that peasant. Don’t fail to do that.

      I’ll call him here as quickly as I can.
      Let’s go inside. I’ll not do anything                                                      
      which does not meet with your approval.

[OEDIPUS and JOCASTA go into the palace together]

      I pray fate still finds me worthy,
      demonstrating piety and reverence
      in all I say and do—in everything
      our loftiest traditions consecrate,
      those laws engendered in the heavenly skies,
      whose only father is Olympus.
      They were not born from mortal men,
      nor will they sleep and be forgotten.
      In them lives an ageless mighty god.

      Insolence gives birth to tyranny—
      that insolence which vainly crams itself
      and overflows with so much wealth
      beyond what’s right or beneficial,
      that once it’s climbed the highest rooftop,
      it’s hurled down by force—such a quick fall
      there’s no safe landing on one’s feet.
      But I pray the god never will abolish
      the type of rivalry that helps our state.                                                           [880]
      That god I will hold onto always,                                                           
      the one who stands as our protector.

      But if a man conducts himself
      disdainfully in what he says and does,
      and manifests no fear of righteousness,
      no reverence for the statues of the gods,
      may miserable fate seize such a man
      for his disastrous arrogance,
      if he does not behave with justice                                                                    
      when he strives to benefit himself,
      appropriates all things impiously,
      and, like a fool, profanes the sacred.
      What man is there who does such things
      who can still claim he will ward off
      the arrow of the gods aimed at his heart?
      If such actions are considered worthy,
      why should we dance to honour god?

      No longer will I go in reverence
      to the sacred stone, earth’s very centre,
      or to the temple at Abae or Olympia,
      if these prophecies fail to be fulfilled                                                   
      and manifest themselves to mortal men.
      But you, all-conquering, all-ruling Zeus,
      if by right those names belong to you,
      let this not evade you and your ageless might.
      For ancient oracles which dealt with Laius
      are withering—men now set them aside.

      Nowhere is Apollo honoured publicly,
      and our religious faith is dying away.

[JOCASTA enters from the palace and moves to an altar to Apollo which stands outside the palace doors.
She is accompanied by one or two SERVANTS]

      You leading citizens of Thebes, I think
      it is appropriate for me to visit                                                              
      our gods’ sacred shrines, bearing in my hands
      this garland and an offering of incense.
      For Oedipus has let excessive pain
      seize on his heart and does not understand
      what’s happening now by thinking of the past,
      like a man with sense. Instead he listens to
      whoever speaks to him of dreadful things.
      I can do nothing more with my advice,
      and so, Lyceian Apollo, I come to you,
      who stand here beside us, a suppliant,
                                                             1090     [920]
      with offerings and prayers for you to find
      some way of cleansing what corrupts us.
      For now we are afraid, just like those
      who on a ship see their helmsman terrified.

[JOCASTA sets her offerings on the altar. A MESSENGER enters, an older man]

      Strangers, can you tell me where I find
      the house of Oedipus, your king? Better yet,
      if you know, can you tell me where he is?

      His home is here, stranger, and he’s inside.
      This lady is the mother of his children.

      May her happy home always be blessed,                                            
      for she is his queen, true mistress of his house.

      I wish the same for you, stranger. Your fine words
      make you deserve as much. But tell us now
      why you have come. Do you seek information,
      or do you wish to give us some report?

      Lady, I have good news for your whole house—
      and for your husband, too.

                                              What news is that?
      Where have you come from?

                                      I’ve come from Corinth.
      I’ll give you my report at once, and then
      you will, no doubt, be glad, although perhaps                                   
      you will be sad, as well.

                                                 What is your news?
      How can it have two such effects at once?

      The people who live there, in the lands
beside the Isthmus, will make him their king.
      They have announced it.                                                                                    

                                                       What are you saying?
      Is old man Polybus no longer king?

      No. He is dead and in his grave.                   

      Has Oedipus’ father died?

      If what I’m telling you is not the truth,
      then I deserve to die.

JOCASTA [to a servant]
                   You there—                                        
      go at once and tell this to your master.

[SERVANT goes into the palace]

      O you oracles of the gods, so much for you.
      Oedipus has for so long been afraid
      that he would murder him. He ran away.
      And now Polybus has died, killed by Fate
      and not by Oedipus.

[Enter OEDIPUS from the palace]

                                                                       Ah, Jocasta,
      my dearest wife, why have you summoned me
      to leave our home and come out here?

      You must hear this man, and as you listen,
      decide for yourself what these prophecies,
      these solemn proclamations from the gods,
      amount to.

                                        Who is this man? What report
      does he have for me?

                                     He comes from Corinth,
      bringing news that Polybus, your father,
      no longer is alive. He’s dead.

      Stranger, let me hear from you in person.

      If I must first report my news quite plainly,
      then I should let you know that Polybus
      has passed away. He’s gone.

                                                  By treachery,
      or was it the result of some disease?
                                                                  1140       [960]

      With old bodies a slight weight on the scales
      brings final peace.

                                     Apparently his death
      was from an illness?

                                        Yes, and from old age.

      Alas! Indeed, lady, why should any man
      pay due reverence to Apollo’s shrine,
      where his prophet lives, or to those birds
      which scream out overhead? For they foretold
      that I was going to murder my own father.

      But now he’s dead and lies beneath the earth,
      and I am here. I never touched my spear.
      Perhaps he died from a desire to see me—
      so in that sense I brought about his death.
      But as for those prophetic oracles,
      they’re worthless. Polybus has taken them
      to Hades, where he lies.

                                                   Was I not the one
      who predicted this some time ago?

                                                               You did,
      but then I was misguided by my fears.

      You must not keep on filling up your heart
      with all these things.

                                                 But my mother’s bed—
      Surely I should still be afraid of that?

      Why should a man whose life seems ruled by chance
      live in fear—a man who never looks ahead,
      who has no certain vision of his future?
      It’s best to live haphazardly, as best one can.
      Do not worry you will wed your mother.
      It’s true that in their dreams a lot of men
      have slept with their own mothers, but someone
      who ignores all this bears life more easily.

      Everything you say would be commendable,
      if my mother were not still alive.                                                          
      But since she is, I must remain afraid,
      though all that you have said is right.

                                                                       But still,
      your father’s death is a great comfort to us.

      Yes, it is good, I know. But I do fear
      that lady—she is still alive.

                                             This one you fear,
      what kind of woman is she?

                                                           Old man,
      her name is Merope, wife to Polybus.

      And what in her makes you so fearful?

      a dreadful prophecy sent from the god.

      Is it well known? Or something private,                                               1180
      which other people have no right to know?

      No, no.
It’s public knowledge. Loxias
      once said it was my fate that I would marry
      my own mother and shed my father’s blood
      with my own hands.
17 That’s why, many years ago,
      I left my home in Corinth. Things turned out well,
      but nonetheless it gives the sweetest joy
      to look into the eyes of one’s own parents.

      And because you were afraid of her                                                                
      you stayed away from Corinth?

                                                          And because                                         
      I did not want to be my father’s killer.

      My lord, since I came to make you happy,
      why do I not relieve you of this fear?

      You would receive from me a worthy thanks.

      That’s really why I came—so your return
      might prove a benefit to me back home.

      But I will never go back to my parents.

      My son, it is so clear you’ve no idea
      what you are doing . . .

OEDIPUS [interrupting]
             What do you mean, old man?
      In the name of all the gods, tell me.

      . . . if that’s the reason you’re a fugitive                                                           
      and won’t go home.

                                           I feared Apollo’s prophecy
      might reveal itself in me.

                                                                           You were afraid
      you might become corrupted through your parents?

      That’s right, old man. That was my constant fear.

      Are you aware these fears of yours are groundless?

      And why is that? If I was born their child . . .

      Because you and Polybus were not related.

      What do you mean? Was not Polybus my father?

      He was as much your father as this man here,                                    
      no more, no less.

                                              But how can any man
      who means nothing to me be just the same
      as my own father?

                                                            But Polybus
      was not your father, no more than I am.

      Then why did he call me his son?

                                                  If you must know,
      he received you as a gift many years ago.
      I gave you to him.

                                                    He really loved me.
      How could he if I came from someone else?

      Because before you came, he had no children—
      that made him love you.

                                               When you gave me to him,
      had you bought me or discovered me by chance?

      I found you in Cithaeron’s forest valleys.

      What were you doing wandering up there?

      I was looking after flocks of sheep.

      You were a shepherd, just a hired servant
      roaming here and there?

                                                          Yes, my son, I was.
      But at that time I was the one who saved you.

      When you picked me up and took me off,
      what sort of suffering did you save me from?

      The ankles on your feet could tell you that.                                        

      Ah, my old misfortune.
Why mention that?

      Your ankles had been pierced and pinned together.
      I set them free.

                                      My dreadful mark of shame—
      I’ve had that scar there since I was a child.

      That’s why fortune gave you your very name,
      the one which you still carry.

                                                                   Tell me,
      in the name of heaven, did my parents,
      my father or my mother, do this to me?

      I don’t know. The man who gave you to me
      knows more of that than I do.

                                                                You mean to say                             
      you got me from someone else? It wasn’t you
      who stumbled on me?

                                           No, it wasn’t me.
      Another shepherd gave you to me.

      Who was he? Do you know? Can you tell me
      any details, things you are quite sure of?

      Well, I think he was one of Laius’ servants—
      that’s what people said.

                                                  You mean king Laius,
      the one who ruled this country years ago?

      That’s right. He was one of the king’s shepherds.

      Is he still alive? Can I still see him?                                                      

      You people live here. You’d best answer that.

OEDIPUS [turning to the Chorus] 
      Do any of you here now know the man,
      this shepherd he describes? Have you seen him,
      either in the fields or here in Thebes?
      Answer me. It’s critical, time at last
      to find out what this means.                                                                            

                                            The man he mentioned
      is, I think, the very peasant from the fields
      you wanted to see earlier. But of this
      Jocasta could tell more than anyone.

      Lady, do you know the man we sent for—                                          
      just minutes ago—the one we summoned here?
      Is he the one this messenger refers to?

      Why ask me what he means? Forget all that.
      There’s no point trying to sort out what he said.

      With all these indications of the truth
      here in my grasp, I cannot end this now.
      I must reveal the details of my birth.                             

      In the name of the gods, no! If you have                                                        
      some concern for your own life, then stop!
      Do not keep on investigating this.                                                         
      I will suffer—that will be enough.

      Be brave. Even if I should turn out to be
      born from a shameful mother, whose family
      for three generations have been slaves,
      you will still have your noble lineage.

      Listen to me, I beg you. Do not do this.

      I will not be convinced I should not learn
      the whole truth of what these facts amount to.

      But I care about your own well being—
      what I tell you is for your benefit.                                                         

      What you’re telling me for my own good
      just brings me more distress.

                                                 O you unhappy man!
      May you never find out who you really are!

OEDIPUS [to Chorus] 
      Go, one of you, and bring that shepherd here.
      Leave the lady to enjoy her noble line.

      Alas, you poor miserable man!
      There’s nothing more that I can say to you.
     I’ll never speak another word again.

[JOCASTA runs into the palace]

      Why has the queen rushed off, Oedipus,
      so full of grief? I fear a disastrous storm                                             
      will soon break through her silence.

                                 Then let it break,
      whatever it is. As for myself,
      no matter how base born my family,
      I wish to know the seed from where I came.
      Perhaps my queen is now ashamed of me
      and of my insignificant origin—
      she likes to play the noble lady.
      But I will never feel myself dishonoured.
      I see myself as a child of Fortune—
      and she is generous, that mother of mine                                           
      from whom I spring, and the months, my siblings,
      have seen me by turns both small and great.
      That’s how I was born. I cannot prove false
      to my own nature, nor can I ever cease
      from seeking out the facts of my own birth.

      If I have any power of prophecy
      or skill in knowing things,
      then, by the Olympian deities,
      you, Cithaeron, at tomorrow’s moon 
      will surely know that Oedipus                                                               
      pays tribute to you as his native land
      both as his mother and his nurse,
      and that our choral dance and song
      acknowledge you because you are
      so pleasing to our king.
      O Phoebus, we cry out to you—
      may our song fill you with delight!

      Who gave birth to you, my child?
      Which one of the immortal gods
      bore you to your father Pan,                                                                  
1320       [1100]
      who roams the mountainsides?
      Was it some bedmate of Apollo,
      the god who loves all country fields?
      Perhaps Cyllene’s royal king?
      Or was it the Bacchanalian god
      dwelling on the mountain tops
      who took you as a new-born joy
      from maiden nymphs of Helicon
      with whom he often romps and plays?

OEDIPUS [looking out away from the palace]
      You elders, though I’ve never seen the man                                        1330       [1110]
      we’ve been seeking for a long time now,
      if I had to guess, I think I see him.
      He’s coming here. He looks very old—
      as is appropriate, if he’s the one.
      And I know the people coming with him,
      servants of mine. But if you’ve seen him before,
      you’ll recognize him better than I will.

      Yes, I recognize the man. There’s no doubt.
      He worked for Laius—a trusty shepherd.

[Enter SERVANT, an old shepherd]

      Stranger from Corinth, let me first ask you—                                    
      is this the man you spoke of?

                                                           Yes, he is—
      he’s the man you see in front of you.                                                               

      You, old man, over here. Look at me.
      Now answer what I ask. Some time ago
      did you work for Laius?

                                                                  Yes, as a slave.

      But I was not bought. I grew up in his house.

      How did you live? What was the work you did?

      Most of my life I’ve spent looking after sheep.

In what specific places?

      On Cithaeron or the neighbouring lands.

      Do you know if you came across this man
      anywhere up there?

                                                       Doing what?

      What man do you mean?

                                          The man over here—
      this one.
Have you ever met him before?                                                                     [1130]

      Right now I can’t say I remember him.

      My lord, that’s surely not surprising.
      Let me refresh his failing memory.
      I think he will remember all too well
      the time we spent around Cithaeron.
      He had two flocks of sheep and I had one.
      I was with him there for six months at a stretch,
      from early spring until the autumn season.
      In winter I’d drive my sheep down to my folds,
      and he’d take his to pens that Laius owned.
      Isn’t that what happened—what I just said?                                                              [1140]

      You spoke the truth. But it was long ago.

      All right, then. Now, tell me if you recall
      how you gave me a child, an infant boy,
      for me to raise as my own foster son.

      What? Why ask about that?

                       This man here, my friend,                                                     
      was that young child back then.

                                                                Damn you!
      Can’t you keep quiet about it!

                                                 Hold on, old man.
      Don’t criticize him. What you have said
      is more objectionable than his account.

      My noble master, what have I done wrong?

      You did not tell us of that infant boy,                                                             
      the one he asked about.

                                                    That’s what he says,
      but he knows nothing—a useless busybody.

      If you won’t tell us of your own free will,
      once we start to hurt you, you will talk.

      By all the gods, don’t torture an old man!

      One of you there, tie up this fellow’s hands.

      Why are you doing this? It’s too much for me!
      What is it you want to know?

                                              That child he mentioned—
      did you give it to him?

                                                     I did. How I wish
      I’d died that day!

                                          Well, you are going to die
      if you don’t speak the truth.

                                                         And if I do,
      the death I suffer will be even worse.

      It seems to me the man is trying to stall.                                                       

      No, no, I’m not. I’ve already told you—                                               
      I did give him the child.

                                                           Where did you get it?
      Did it come from your home or somewhere else?

      It was not mine—I got it from someone.

      Which of our citizens? Whose home was it?

      In the name of the gods, my lord, don’t
      Please, no more questions!

                                          If I have to ask again,
      then you will die.

                              The child was born in Laius’ house.

      From a slave or from some relative of his?

      Alas, what I’m about to say now . . .
      it’s horrible.

                                        It may be horrible,                                                  
1400      [1170]
      but nonetheless I have to hear it.

      If you must know, they said the child was his.
      But your wife inside the palace is the one
      who could best tell you what was going on.

      You mean she gave the child to you?

                                                 Yes, my lord.

      Why did she do that?

                                     So I would kill it.

      That wretched woman was the mother?


      She was afraid of dreadful prophecies.

      What sort of prophecies?

                                                     The story went
      that he would kill his father.

                                                            If that was true,                                  
      why did you give the child to this old man?

      I pitied the boy, master, and I thought
      he’d take the child off to a foreign land
      where he was from. But he rescued him,
      only to save him for the greatest grief of all.
      For if you are who this man says you are                                       
      you know your birth carried an awful fate.

      Ah, so it all came true. It’s so clear now.
      O light, let me look at you one final time,
      a man who stands revealed as cursed by birth,
      cursed by my own family, and cursed
      by murder where I should not kill.

[OEDIPUS moves into the palace]

      O generations of mortal men,
      how I count your life as scarcely living.

      What man is there, what human being,
      who attains a greater happiness
      than mere appearances, a joy
      which seems to fade away to nothing?
      Poor wretched Oedipus, your fate
      stands here to demonstrate for me                                                      
      how no mortal man is ever blessed.

      Here was a man who fired his arrows well—
      his skill was matchless—and he won
      the highest happiness in everything.
      For, Zeus, he slaughtered the hook-taloned Sphinx
      and stilled her cryptic song. For our state,
      he stood there like a tower against death,
      and from that moment, Oedipus,
      we have called you our king
      and honoured you above all other men,
      the one who rules in mighty Thebes.

      But now who is there whose story
      is more terrible to hear? Whose life
      has been so changed by trouble,
      by such ferocious agonies?
      Alas for celebrated Oedipus,
      the same spacious place of refuge 
      served you both as child and father,
      the place you entered as a new bridegroom.
      How could the furrow where your father planted,
      poor wretched man, have tolerated you
      in such silence for so long?

      Time, which watches everything
      and uncovered you against your will,
      now sits in judgment of that fatal marriage,
      where child and parent have been joined so long.
      O child of Laius, how I wish
      I’d never seen you—now I wail
      like one whose mouth pours forth laments.
      To tell it right, it was through you                                                        
      I found my life and breathed again,
      and then through you the darkness veils my eyes.

[The Second Messenger enters from the palace]

      O you most honoured citizens of Thebes,
      what actions you will hear about and see,
      what sorrows you will bear, if, as natives here,
      you are still loyal to the house of Labdacus!
      I do not think the Ister or the Phasis rivers
      could cleanse this house. It conceals too much
      and soon will bring to light the vilest things,
      brought on by choice and not by accident.
20                                        1470     [1230]
      What we do to ourselves brings us most pain.

      The calamities we knew about before
      were hard enough to bear. What can you say
      to make them worse?

                                                         I’ll waste no words—
      know this—noble Jocasta, our queen, is dead.

      That poor unhappy lady! How did she die?

      She killed herself. You did not witness it,
      so you’ll be spared the worst of what went on.
      But from what I recall of what I saw
      you’ll learn how that poor woman suffered.
                                                   1480     [1240]
      She left here frantic and rushed inside,
      the fingers of both hands clenched in her hair.
      She ran through the hall straight to her marriage bed.
      She went in, slamming both doors shut behind her
      and crying out to Laius, who’s been a corpse
      a long time now. She was remembering
      that child of theirs born many years ago—
      the one who killed his father, who left her
      to conceive cursed children with that son.
      She lay moaning beside the bed, where she,
      poor woman, had given birth twice over—
      a husband from a husband, children from a child.                                      
      How she died after that I don’t fully know.
      With a scream Oedipus came bursting in.
      He would not let us see her suffering,
      her final pain. We watched him charge around,
      back and forth. As he moved, he kept asking us
      to give him a sword, as he tried to find
      that wife who was no wife—whose mother’s womb
      had given birth to him and to his children.
      As he raved, some immortal power led him on—
      no human in the room came close to him.
      With a dreadful howl, as if someone
      had pushed him, he leapt at the double doors,
      bent the bolts by force out of their sockets,
      and burst into the room. Then we saw her.
      She was hanging there, swaying, with twisted cords
      roped round her neck. When Oedipus saw her,
      with a dreadful groan he took her body
      from the noose in which she hung, and then,
      when the poor woman was lying on the ground—
      what happened next was a horrific sight—
      from her clothes he ripped the golden brooches
      she wore as ornaments, raised them high,
      and drove them deep into his eyeballs,
      crying as he did so: “You will no longer see
      all those atrocious things I suffered,
      the dreadful things I did! No. You have seen
      what you never should have looked upon,
      and what I wished to know you did not see.
      So now and for all future time be dark!”
      With these words he raised his hand and struck,
      not once, but many times, right in the sockets.
      With every blow blood spurted from his eyes
      down on his beard, and not in single drops,
      but showers of dark blood spattering like hail.
      So what these two have done has overwhelmed
      not one alone—this disaster swallows up
      a man and wife together. That old happiness
      they had before in their rich ancestry                                                  
      was truly joy, but now lament and ruin,
      death and shame, and all calamities
      which men can name are theirs to keep.

      And has that suffering man found some relief
      to ease his pain?

                                  He shouts at everyone
      to open up the gates and thus reveal
      to all Cadmeians his father’s killer,
      his mother’s . . . but I must not say those words.
      He wants them to cast him out of Thebes,                                                    
      so the curse he laid will not come on this house                                 
      if he still lives inside. But he is weak
      and needs someone to lead him on his way.
      His agony is more than he can bear—
      as he will show you—for on the palace doors
      the bolts are being pulled back. Soon you will see
      a sight which even a man filled with disgust
      would have to pity.

[OEDIPUS enters through the palace doors]

      An awful fate for human eyes to witness,
      an appalling sight—
the worst I’ve ever seen.
      O you poor man, what madness came on you?                                  
      What eternal force pounced on your life                                                       
      and, springing further than the longest leap,
      brought you this fearful doom? Alas! Alas!
      You unhappy man! I cannot look at you.
      I want to ask you many things—there’s much
      I wish to learn. You fill me with such horror,
      yet there is so much I must see.

      Aaaiiii, aaaiii . . . Alas! Alas!
      How miserable I am . . . such wretchedness . . .
      Where do I go? How can the wings of air                                             
1560      [1310]
      sweep up my voice? O my destiny,
      how far you have sprung now!

      To a fearful place from which men turn away,
      a place they hate to look upon.

      O the dark horror engulfing me,
      this nameless visitor I can’t resist
      swept here by fair and fatal winds.
      Alas for me! And yet again, alas for me!
      The pain of stabbing brooches pierces me!
      The memory of agonizing shame!

      In your distress it’s not astonishing
      you bear a double load of suffering,
      a double load of pain.

                                                Ah, my friend,
      so you still care for me, as always,
      and with patience nurse me now I’m blind.
      Alas! Alas! You are not hidden from me—
      I recognize you all too clearly.
      Though I am blind, I know that voice so well.

      You have carried out such dreadful things—
      how could you dare to blind yourself this way?
      What god drove you to it?

                                                    It was Apollo, friends.
      It was Apollo. He brought on these troubles—
      the awful things I suffer. But the hand
      which stabbed out my eyes was mine alone.
      In my wretched life, why should I have eyes
      when there was nothing sweet for me to see?

      What you have said is true enough.

      What is there for me to see, my friends?
      What can I love? Whose greeting can I hear
      and feel delight? Hurry now, my friends,
                                                        1590      [1340]
      lead me away from Thebes—take me somewhere,
      a man completely lost, utterly accursed,
      the mortal man the gods despise the most.

      Unhappy in your fate and in your mind
      which now knows all.
Would I had never known you!

      Whoever the man is who freed my feet,
      who released me from that cruel shackle
      and rescued me from death, may that man die!
      It was a thankless act. Had I perished then,
      I would not have brought such agony                                            
      to myself or to my friends.

                                                                        I agree—
      I, too, would have preferred if you had died.

      I would not have come to kill my father,
      and men would not see in me the husband
      of the woman who gave birth to me.
      Now I am abandoned by the gods,                                                                     
      the son of a corrupted mother,
      conceiving children with the woman
      who gave me my own miserable life.
      If there is some horrific suffering                                                   
      worse than all the rest, then it too belongs
      in the fate of Oedipus.

                                                  I do not believe
      what you did to yourself is for the best.
      Better to be dead than alive and blind.

      Don’t tell me what I’ve done is not the best.
      And from now on spare me your advice.                                                           
      If I could see, I don’t know how my eyes
      could look at my own father when I come
      to Hades or at my wretched mother.
      Against those two I have committed acts                                      
      so vile that even if I hanged myself
      that would not be sufficient punishment.
      Perhaps you think the sight of my own children
      might give me joy? No! Look how they were born!
      They could never bring delight to eyes of mine.
      Nor could the city or its massive walls,
      or the sacred images of its gods.

      I am the most abhorred of men, I,
      the finest man of all those bred in Thebes,                                                   
      I have condemned myself, telling everyone                                   
      they had to banish for impiety
      the man the gods have now exposed
      as sacrilegious—a son of Laius, too.
      With such polluting stains upon me,
      could I set eyes on you and hold your gaze?
      No. And if I could somehow block my ears
      and kill my hearing, I would not hold back.
      I’d make a dungeon of this wretched body,
      so I would never see or hear again.
      For there is joy in isolated thought,                                                1640
      completely sealed off from a world of pain.
      O Cithaeron, why did you shelter me?
      Why, when I was handed over to you,
      did you not do away with me at once,
      so I would never then reveal to men
      the nature of my birth? Ah Polybus
      and Corinth, the place men called my home,
      my father’s ancient house, you raised me well—
      so fine to look at, so corrupt inside!
      Now I’ve been exposed as something gross,                                  
      contaminated in my origins.
      O you three roads and hidden forest grove,
      you thicket and defile where three paths meet,
      you who swallowed down my father’s blood                                                     
      from my own hands, do you remember me,
      what I did there in front of you and then
      what else I did when I came here to Thebes?
      Ah, you marriage rites—you gave birth to me,
      and when I was born, you gave birth again,
      children from the child of that same womb,                                  
      creating an incestuous blood family
      of fathers, brothers, children, brides,
      wives and mothers—the most atrocious act
      that human beings commit! But it is wrong
      to talk about what it is wrong to do,
      so in the name of all the gods, act quickly—
      hide me somewhere far from the land of Thebes,                                              
      or slaughter me, or hurl me in the sea,
      where you will never gaze on me again.
      Come, allow yourself to touch a wretched man.                            
      Listen to me, and do not be afraid—
      for this disease infects no one but me.

      Creon is coming. He is just in time
      to plan and carry out what you propose.
      With you gone he’s the only one still left
      to act as guardian of Thebes.

      how will I talk to him? How can I ask him
      to put his trust in me? Not long ago                                                                  
      I showed I had no faith in him at all.

[Enter Creon]

      Oedipus, I have not come here to mock                                        
      or blame you for disasters in the past.
      But if you can no longer value human beings,
      at least respect our lord the Sun, whose light
      makes all things grow, and do not put on show
      pollution of this kind in such a public way,
      for neither earth nor light nor sacred rain
      can welcome such a sight.

[Creon speaks to the attending servants]

                                       Take him inside the house
      as quickly as you can. The kindest thing
      would be for members of his family                                                                   
      to be the only ones to see and hear him.                                       

      By all the gods, since you are acting now
      so differently from what I would expect
      and have come here to treat me graciously,
      the very worst of men, do what I ask.

      I will speak for your own benefit, not mine.

      What are you so keen to get from me?

      Cast me out as quickly as you can,
      away from Thebes, to a place where no one,
      no living human being, will cross my path.

      That is something I could do, of course,                                        
      but first I wish to know what the god says
      about what I should do.

                                                               But what he said                                        
      was all so clear—the man who killed his father
      must be destroyed. And that corrupted man
      is me.

                             Yes, that is what was said. But now,
      with things the way they are, the wisest thing
      is to ascertain quite clearly what to do.

      Will you then be making a request
      on my behalf when I am so depraved?

      I will. For even you must now trust in the gods.                           

      Yes, I do. And I have a task for you
      as I make this plea—that woman in the house,
      please bury her as you see fit. You are the one
      to give your own the proper funeral rites.
      But never let my father’s city be condemned
      to have me living here while I still live.                                                              
      Let me make my home up in the mountains
      by Cithaeron, whose fame is now my own.
      When my father and mother were alive,
      they chose it as my special burying place—                                  
      and thus, when I die, I shall be following
      the orders of the ones who tried to kill me.
      And yet I know this much—no disease
      nor any other suffering can kill me—
      for I would never have been saved from death
unless I was to suffer a strange destiny.
      But wherever my fate leads, just let it go.
      As for my two sons, Creon, there’s no need
      for you to care for them on my behalf.
      They are men, and, no matter where they are,
                                              1730     [1460]
      they’ll always have enough to live on.
      But my two poor daughters have never known
      my dining table placed away from them
      or lacked their father’s presence. They shared
      everything I touched—so it has always been.
      So take care of them for me. But first let me
      feel them with my hands and then I’ll grieve.
      O my lord, you noble heart, let me do that—
      if my hands could touch them it would seem
      as if I were with them when I still could see.
                                                 1740     [1470]

[Some SERVANTS lead ANTIGONE and ISMENE out of the palace]

      What’s this? By all the gods I hear something—
      is it my two dear children crying . . . ?
      Has Creon taken pity on me
      and sent out the children, my dear treasures?
      Is that what’s happening?

I sent for them.
      I know the joy they’ve always given you—
      the joy which you feel now.

                                                              I wish you well.
      And for this act, may the god watch over you
      and treat you better than he treated me.
      Ah, my children, where are you? Come here,                                 
1750      [1480]
      come into my arms—you are my sisters now—
      feel these hands which turned your father’s eyes,
      once so bright, into what you see now,
      these empty sockets. He was a man who,
      seeing nothing, knowing nothing, fathered you
      with the woman who had given birth to him.
      I weep for you. Although I cannot see,
      I think about your life in days to come,
      the bitter life which men will force on you.
      What citizens will associate with you?                                           
      What feasts will you attend and not come home
      in tears, with no share in the rejoicing?                                                             
      When you’re mature enough for marriage,
      who will be there for you, my children,
      what husband ready to assume the shame
      tainting my children and their children, too?
      What perversion is not manifest in us?
      Your father killed his father, and then ploughed
      his mother’s womb—where he himself was born—
      conceiving you where he, too, was conceived.                               
      Those are the insults they will hurl at you.                                                       
      Who, then, will marry you? No one, my children.
      You must wither, barren and unmarried.
      Son of Menoeceus, with both parents gone,
      you alone remain these children’s father.
      Do not let them live as vagrant paupers,
      wandering around unmarried. You are
      a relative of theirs—don’t let them sink
      to lives of desperation like my own.
      Have pity. You see them now at their young age                          
      deprived of everything except a share
      in what you are. Promise me, you noble soul,
      you will extend your hand to them. And you,                                                   
      my children, if your minds were now mature,
      there’s so much I could say. But I urge you—
      pray that you may live as best you can
      and lead your destined life more happily
      than your own father.

                                                You have grieved enough.
      Now go into the house.

                                                                   I must obey,
      although that’s not what I desire.

                                                         In due time                                   
      all things will work out for the best.

                                                         I will go.
      But you know there are conditions.

                                                                   Tell me.
      Once I hear them, I’ll know what they are.

      Send me away to live outside of Thebes.

      Only the god can give you what you ask.

      But I’ve become abhorrent to the gods.

      Then you should quickly get what you desire.

      So you agree?                                                                                                      

                                                  I don’t like to speak
      thoughtlessly and say what I don’t mean.

      Come then, lead me off.

                                                          All right,                                       
      but let go of the children.

                                                      No, no!
      Do not take them away from me.

      Don’t try to keep control of everything.
      You have lost the power your life once had.

[CREON, OEDIPUS, ANTIGONE, ISMENE, and ATTENDANTS all enter the palace]22

      You residents of Thebes, our native land,
      look on this man, this Oedipus, the one
      who understood that celebrated riddle.
      He was the most powerful of men.
      All citizens who witnessed this man’s wealth
      were envious. Now what a surging tide                                         
      of terrible disaster sweeps around him.
      So while we wait to see that final day,
      we cannot call a mortal being happy
      before he’s passed beyond life free from pain.                                             


1Cadmus: legendary founder of Thebes. Hence, the citizens of Thebes were often called children of Cadmus or Cadmeians[Back to Text]

2Pallas: Pallas Athena. There were two shrines to her in Thebes. Ismenus: A temple to Apollo Ismenios where burnt offerings were the basis for the priest’s divination. [Back to text]

3cruel singer: a reference to the Sphinx, a monster with the body of a lion, wings, and the head and torso of a woman. After the death of king Laius, the Sphinx tyrannized Thebes by not letting anyone into or out of the city, unless the person could answer the following riddle: “What walks on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?” Those who could not answer were killed and eaten. Oedipus provided the answer (a human being), and thus saved the city. The Sphinx then committed suicide. [Back to text]

4berries: a suppliant to Apollo’s shrine characteristically wore such a garland if he received favourable news. [Back to text]

5Ares, god of war and killing, was often disapproved of by the major Olympian deities. Amphitrite: was a goddess of the sea, married to Poseidon. [Back to text]

6Lyceian Lord: a reference to Apollo, god of light. [Back to text]

7. . . among gods: Dionysus was also called Bacchus, and Thebes was sometimes called Baccheia (belonging to Bacchus). The Maenads are the followers of Dionysus. [Back to text]

8lustral water: water purified in a communal religious ritual. [Back to text]

9Agenor: founder of the Theban royal family; his son Cadmus moved from Sidon in Asia Minor to Greece and founded Thebes. Polydorus: son of Cadmus, father of Labdacus, and hence grandfather of Laius. [Back to text]

10Cithaeron: the sacred mountain outside Thebes. [Back to text]

11Zeus’ son: a reference to Apollo. The Furies are the goddesses of blood revenge. [Back to text]

12Parnassus: a famous mountain some distance from Thebes, but visible from the city. [Back to text]

13Polybus: ruler of Corinth, who raised Oedipus and is thus believed to be his father. The house of Labdacus is the Theban royal family (i.e., Laius, Jocasta, and Creon). [Back to text]

14There is some argument about who speaks which lines in 622-626 of the Greek text. I follow Jebb’s suggestions, ascribing 625 to Creon, to whom it seems clearly to belong (in spite of the manuscripts) and adding a line to indicate Oedipus’ response. [Back to text]

15This part of the choral song makes an important distinction between two forms of self-assertive action: the first breeds self-aggrandizement and greed; the second is necessary for the protection of the state. [Back to text]

16Isthmus: The city of Corinth stood on the narrow stretch of land (the Isthmus) connecting the Peloponnese with mainland Greece, a very strategic position. [Back to text]

17Loxias: a common name for Apollo. [Back to the text]

18. . . still carry: the name Oedipus can be construed to mean either “swollen feet” or “knowledge of one’s feet.” Both terms evoke a strongly ironic sense of how Oedipus, for all his fame as a man of knowledge, is ignorant about his origin. [Back to text]

19Cyllene’s king is the god Hermes, who was born on Mount Cyllene; the Bacchanalian god is Dionysus. [Back to text]

20This line refers, not the entire story, but to what Jocasta and Oedipus have just done to themselves. [Back to the text]

21Oedipus’ two sons, Eteocles and Polyneices, would probably be fifteen or sixteen years old at this time, not old enough to succeed Oedipus. [Back to text]

22It is not entirely clear from these final lines whether Oedipus now leaves Thebes or not. According to Jebb’s commentary (line 1519), in the traditional story on which Sophocles is relying, Oedipus was involuntarily held at Thebes for some time before the citizens and Creon expelled him from the city. Creon’s lines suggest he is going to wait to hear from the oracle before deciding about Oedipus. However, there is a powerful dramatic logic in having Oedipus stumble off away from the palace. In Book 23 of the Iliad, Homer indicates that Oedipus died at Thebes, and there were funeral games held in his honour in that city. [Back to text]



[Back to johnstonia Home Page]
Page loads on johnstonia web files
View Stats