Messenger. Ah, my son, it is plain enough, you do not know what you do.
Oedipus. How, old man? For the gods’ love, tell me.
Messenger. If for these reasons you shrink from going home.
Oedipus. I am afraid lest Phoebus has spoken true.
Messenger. You are afraid of being made guilty through Merope?
Oedipus. That is my constant fear.
Messenger. A vain fear.
Oedipus. How so, if I was born of that father and mother?
Messenger. Because they were nothing to you in blood.
Oedipus. What do you say? Was Polybius not my father?
Messenger. No more nor less than myself.
Oedipus. How can my father be no more to me than you who are nothing to me?
Messenger. He did not beget you any more than I.
Oedipus. No? Then why did he call me his son?
Messenger. He took you as a gift from these hands of mine.
Oedipus. How could he love so dearly what came from another’s hands?
Messenger. He had been childless.
