And wait the event.
philoctetes.
My honor is concerned,
And therefore I shall stay; nor hence depart
Till I have ample vengeance for the wrongs
Thy base suspicions cast on Philoctetes.
SCENE V.
œdipus, araspes.
œdipus.
Araspes, I can never think him guilty:
A heart like his, intrepid, brave, and fearless,
Could never stoop to mean disguise; nor thoughts
So noble e’er inspire the timid breast
Of falsehood: no! such baseness is far from him:
I even blushed to accuse him, and condemned
My own injustice: hard and cruel fate
Of royalty! alas! kings cannot read
The hearts of men, and oft on innocence,
Spite of ourselves unjust, inflict the pains
Due to the guilty. How this Phorbas lingers!
In him alone are all my hopes: the gods
Refuse to hear or answer to our vows;
Their silence shows how much they are offended.
araspes.
Rely then on thyself: the gods, whose aid
This priest hath promised, do not always dwell
Within their temples; tripods, caves, and cells,
The brazen mouths that pour forth oracles,
Which men had framed, by men may be inspired;
We must not rest our faith on priests alone;
Even in the sanctuary traitors oft
May lurk unseen, exert their pious arts
To enslave mankind, and bid the destinies
Speak or be silent just as they command them.
Search then, and find the truth, examine all;
Phorbas, and Philoctetes, and Jocaste.
Trust to yourself; let our own eyes determine;
Be they our tripods, oracles, and gods.
œdipus.
Within the temple, thinkest thou, perfidy
Like this can dwell: but if just heaven at last
Should fix our fate, and Œdipus be called
To execute its will, he will receive
The precious trust, the safety of his country,
Nor act unworthy of it. To the gods
Once more I go, and with incessant prayer
Will try to soothe their anger: thou, meantime,
If thou wouldst wish to serve me, hasten onward
The lingering Phorbas; in our hapless state,
I must enquire the truth of gods and men.
The End of the Second Act.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
jocaste, ægina.
jocaste.
Yes, my Ægina, I expect him here;
’Tis the last time these eyes shall e’er behold
The wretched Philoctetes.
ægina.
Thou hast heard,
My royal mistress, to what desperate height
The clamorous people carry their resentment;
Our dying Thebans from his punishment
Expect their safety. Old men, women, children,
United by misfortunes, breathe forth vengeance;
Pronounce him guilty, and cry out that heaven
Demands his blood: canst thou resist the torrent,
Defend, or save him?
jocaste.
Yes: I will defend him;
Even though Thebes should lift the murderous hand
Against her queen, beneath her smoking walls
To crush Jocaste, ne’er would I betray
Such injured innocence; but still I fear
The tongue of slander: well thou knowest my heart
Once sighed for Philoctetes; now, Ægina,
Will they not say I sacrifice to him
My fame, my gods, my country, and my husband?
Will they not say Jocaste loves him still?
ægina.
Calm thy vain fears; thy passion had no witness
But me, and never—
jocaste.
Thinkest thou that a princess
Can e’er conceal her hatred or her love?
O no! on every side the eager eyes
Of courtiers look upon us: through the veil
Of feigned respect, with subtle treachery
They search our hearts, and trace out every weakness.
Naught can escape their sharp malignant sight;
A little word, a sigh, or glance betrays us;
Our very silence shall be made to speak
Our thoughts; and when their busy artifice,
Spite of ourselves, hath drawn the secret from us,
Then their loud censures cast invidious light
O’er all our actions, and the instructed world
Is quickly taught to echo every weakness.
ægina.
But what hast thou to fear from calumny?
What piercing eye can wound Jocaste’s fame?
Who knows thy love, will know thy conquest o’er it;
Will know thy virtue still supported thee.
jocaste.
It is that virtue which distresses me;
I look, perhaps, with too severe an eye
On my own weakness, and accuse myself
Unjustly; but the image still remains
Of Philoctetes, engraved within my heart
Too deep for time or virtue to efface it;
And much I doubt, if when I strive to save him.
I act not less from justice than from love:
My pity hath too much of tenderness;
I tremble oft, and oft reproach myself
For my fond care; I could be more his friend,
If he had been less dear to me.
ægina.