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The oath thou profferest, sire, I take and swear.

I slew him not myself, nor can I name

The slayer. For the quest, ’twere well, methinks

That Phoebus, who proposed the riddle, himself

Should give the answer⁠—who the murderer was.

Well argued; but no living man can hope

To force the gods to speak against their will.

May I then say what seems next best to me?

Aye, if there be a third best, tell it too.

My liege, if any man sees eye to eye

With our lord Phoebus, ’tis our prophet, lord

Teiresias; he of all men best might guide

A searcher of this matter to the light.

Here too my zeal has nothing lagged, for twice

At Creon’s instance have I sent to fetch him,

And long I marvel why he is not here.

Mere gossip.