Oedipus at Colonus (1119-1181)

Stranger, do not be amazed at my persistence, if I prolong my words to my children,

found again beyond my hope. I well know that my present joy in them has come to me from you, and you alone, for you—and not any other mortal—have rescued them. May the gods grant to you my wish,

both to you yourself and to this land; for among you, above all mankind, I have found piety, the spirit of decency, and lips that tell no lie. I know these things, and I repay them with these words; for what I have, I have through you, and no one else.

Stretch out to me your right hand, lord, that I may touch it; and if it is right, let me kiss your cheek. But what am I saying? Wretched as I have become, how could I wish you to touch a man in whom every stain of evils has made its dwelling?

I will not touch you—nor will I allow it, if you do consent. They alone, who know them, can share these burdens. Receive my greeting where you stand, and in the future too give me your righteous care, as you have given it up to this hour.

I feel no amazement, if you have had a lengthy conversation

from joy in these children, or if your first concern has been for their words rather than for me. Indeed, there is nothing to vex me in that. Not with words so much as with deeds would I add luster to my life. You have this proof:

I have cheated you in none of my sworn promises, old man. Here am I, with the maidens living, uninjured by those threats. As to how the struggle was won, what need have I vainly to boast of what you will learn from these two when you are together?

But there is a matter that has just presented itself to me, as I came here. Give me your counsel regarding it; for, though it is small, it is food for wonder. And mortal man must consider nothing beneath his concern.

What is it, son of Aegeus? Tell me; I myself know nothing of what you inquire.

They say a man—not from your city, yet of your race—has somehow thrown himself down, as a suppliant, at our altar of Poseidon, where I was sacrificing when I first set out here.

What land does he come form? What does he desire by his supplication?

I know one thing only: they tell me he asks to speak briefly with you, a thing of no great burden.

On what topic? That suppliant state is of no small account.

He asks, they say, no more than that he may confer with you,

and return unharmed from his journey here.

Who can he be that implores the god in this way?

Consider whether there is anyone in your race at Argos, who might desire this favor from you.

Dearest friend, say no more!

What is wrong?

Do not ask me for—

For what? Speak!

From hearing these things I know who the suppliant is.

And who can he be, that I should have an objection to him?

My son, lord, a hated son whose words would vex my ear like the words of no man besides.

What? Can you not listen, without doing what you do not wish to do? Why does it pain you to hear him?

Lord, that voice has become most hateful to his father. Do not constrain me to yield in this.

But consider whether his suppliant state constrains you;

what if you have a duty of respect for the god?

Father, listen to me; I will offer counsel though I am young. Allow this man here to gratify his own feelings and the god as he wishes, and for your daughters’ sake allow our brother to come.