Who is he by voice immortal named from Pythia’s rocky cell, Doer of foul deeds of bloodshed, horrors that no tongue can tell? A foot for flight he needs Fleeter than storm-swift steeds, For on his heels doth follow, Armed with the lightnings of his Sire, Apollo. Like sleuth-hounds too The Fates pursue. Yea, but now flashed forth the summons from Parnassus’ snowy peak, “Near and far the undiscovered doer of this murder seek!” Now like a sullen bull he roves Through forest brakes and upland groves, And vainly seeks to fly 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 perplexed 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 winged 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?

Chorus Monologue from Oedipus at Colonus

Rehearse Chorus's monologue