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The old man’s gone, my king—terrible prophecies. Well I know, since the hair on this old head went gray, he’s never lied to Thebes.
. . . he embraced the girl and breathing hard, released a quick rush of blood, bright red on her cheek glistening white. And there he lies, body enfolding body . . . he has won his bride at last, poor boy, not here but in the houses of the dead.
Ohhh, so senseless, so insane . . . my crimes, my stubborn, deadly—Look at us, the killer, the killed, father and son, the same blood—the misery! . . . Ai, dead, lost to the world, not through your stupidity, no, my own.
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