Still have thy dangers busied all my soul,
Nor left me time to think on aught but thee.
JOCASTE.
When fate, which had reserved me for thy arms,
Deprived me of my late unhappy lord,
Who, journeying o'er his kingdom's frontiers, fell
By base assassins, Phorbas then alone
Attended him, his loved and valued friend;
To whom the king, relying on his wisdom,
Entrusted half his power: he brought to Thebes
The mangled corpse: himself half dead with wounds,
And bathed in blood, fell at Jocaste's feet;
"Villains unknown," he cried, "have slain the king;
These eyes beheld it: I was dying too,
But heaven hath restored me to prolong
A wretched life." He said no more. My soul
Distracted saw the melancholy truth
Was still concealed; and therefore heaven perhaps
Concealed the murderer too; perhaps accomplished
Its own eternal will, and made us guilty,
That it might punish. Soon the sphinx appeared,
And laid our country waste: then hapless Thebes,
Attentive to her safety, could not think
On Laius' fate, whilst trembling for her own.
ŒDIPUS.
Where is that faithful Phorbas? lives he still?
JOCASTE.
Alas! his zeal and service ill repaid,
Too powerful to be loved, the jealous state
His secret foe, nobles and people joined
To punish him for past felicity.
The multitude accused him, even demanded
