Untitled

Out on it, lady! why should one regard

The Pythian hearth or birds that scream i’ the air?

Did they not point at me as doomed to slay

My father? but he’s dead and in his grave

And here am I who ne’er unsheathed a sword;

Unless the longing for his absent son

Killed him and so I slew him in a sense.

But, as they stand, the oracles are dead⁠—

Dust, ashes, nothing, dead as Polybus.

Say, did not I foretell this long ago?

Thou didst: but I was misled by my fear.

Then let it no more weigh upon thy soul.