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The doom that ever nigh

Flits o’er his head,

Still by the avenging Phoebus sped,

The voice divine,

From Earth’s mid shrine.

Sore perplexèd am I by the words of the master seer.

Are they true, are they false? I know not and bridle my tongue for fear,

Fluttered with vague surmise; nor present nor future is clear.

Quarrel of ancient date or in days still near know I none

Twixt the Labdacidan house and our ruler, Polybus’ son.

Proof is there none: how then can I challenge our King’s good name,

How in a blood-feud join for an untracked deed of shame?

All wise are Zeus and Apollo, and nothing is hid from their ken;

They are gods; and in wits a man may surpass his fellow men;

But that a mortal seer knows more than I know⁠—where

Hath this been proven? Or how without sign assured, can I blame

Him who saved our State when the wingèd songstress came,

Tested and tried in the light of us all, like gold assayed?

How can I now assent when a crime is on Oedipus laid?