 | Polinices |  |
SCENE THE FOURTH.
Jocasta, Polinices.Pol.
And may thy imprecation be accomplished,
May Heaven shower vengeance on my head, if I
Am not sincere in my desire for peace.
Joc.
Beloved son, and may I trust thy words?
Pol.
Mother, I wish to spare the Theban blood,
No wish is dearer to my heart: like me,
Adrastes fain would sheathe the murderous sword.
'Tis true, that, till he saw me in this Thebes,
The ancestral sceptre grasp, he would refuse,
Although I wished it, to return to Argos.
Joc.
Alas! thou wilt not be the first to yield.
Pol.
I cannot.
Joc.
What prevents thee?
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Prudence, mother.
Joc.
Dost thou not trust in me?
Pol.
I trust him not:
He has deceived me once.
Joc.
If thou refuse
To free this city from besieging foes,
I shall believe what fame reports of thee,
That thou hast form'd, our ruin to ensure,
Infamous ties of blood with King Adrastes;
And that thou hast demanded of thy father
War, as the fatal dowry of thy marriage.
Pol.
Oh cruel fate! my infant, and my spouse,
On one side emulously rend my heart,
Weeping, and asking bitterly from me,
Their wrested heritage; on th'other side,
For thee, my mother, deep compassion thrills me,
And for my sick and desolated country; ...
Yet, ah reflect! Thou seest it thyself;
What would it now avail if I sent back
My warriors? 'twould not be less manifest,
That if my brother yields, he yields to fear,
And not to my just claims. What will he then
Have gain'd for his proud honour? Well I know,
That far from hence my force withdrawn he wishes,
Since force alone compels him to be just.
Joc.
And thou alone adoptest force, because
It loosens thee from every other pact.
Pol.
Mother! dost thou so little know thy sons?
Thou know'st full well that we were scarcely born,
Ere hatred, towards me, in his heart took root.
He grew in hatred; and in every vein
Hatred is mingled with his blood. 'Tis true,
I love him not; for 'tis impossible
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To injure him; so that I do not seem
To bear his scorn, and Greece behold me not
Tamely enduring outrages so vast.
Joc.
Hear virtue! Thou expectest Greece to prize thee,
Since to a brother, guiltier than thyself,
Thou dost refuse to yield? The Theban throne,
Of all thy wishes, is the noble object?
Dost thou not know that here to gain the throne,
Is to gain all that is on earth most wretched?
Think on thy ancestors, who ever reigned
In Thebes, and was not guilty! Certainly,
The throne on which sat wretched Œdipus
Is worthy of thy envy! Dost thou fear
That the world should not know that he had sons?
Say, hast thou virtue? Leave the throne to guilt.
Wouldst thou take vengeance on thy brother? wouldst thou
That he, by Thebes, by Greece, the world, and Heaven,
Be execrated? Leave him then to reign.
Even I, also born upon the throne,
Disastrous days, amid its empty pomps,
Days of distraction, each obscurer state
The object of my envy, have dragged on!
What other art thou, misadventurous throne,
What other, but an ancient usurpation,
Source of much suffering, and of more abhorrence!
Oh, that I ne'er had fill'd thee, fatal station!
Of Œdipus, then had I never been
The mother and the wife; then had I not
Been the cursed parent of unnatural brothers!
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Mother, thou mortally offendest me!
Deem'st me unfit for my appointed station?
Ah! it is not, no, it is not my object
T'impose as laws each transient phantasy,
With hypocritical and insane pride
T'affect resemblance to th'immortal gods;
The puppetry of super-human greatness,
Though this, by many, may be deemed to reign,
Is not my object. If in happier days
Virtue in me was not a vain pretence,
Now, in my adverse ones, be thou assured
I hold it still more dear. A throne in Argos
Adrastes offered me; if I had loved
A sceptre, for itself, I there had reigned.
Joc.
Thou rather, than t'obtain a throne, oh son,
Be anxious to deserve one. I still hope
That thou wilt have one: yet if both of us
Eteocles deceive, I pray thee, tell me,
Whose is the infamy, and whose the glory?
Yield to my reasons, to my prayers, and tears;
Yield to the tears of thy unhappy country.
Wouldst thou destroy Thebes ere thou reign'st in Thebes?
Pol.
I have already said it, war I wish not:
But force assists t'obtain more certain peace.
Joc.
Lov'st thou thy mother?
Pol.
Far more than myself!
Joc.
My life is in thy hands.
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