the surer bolt,
And who's the better Jove! [_Fight._

_Eur._ Help; murther, help!

_Enter_ HAEMON _and guards, run betwixt them, and
beat down their swords._

_Haem._ Hold, hold your impious hands! I think the furies,
To whom this grove is hallowed, have inspired you:
Now, by my soul, the holiest earth of Thebes
You have profaned with war. Nor tree, nor plant
Grows here, but what is fed with magick juice;
All full of human souls, that cleave their barks
To dance at midnight by the moon's pale beams:
At least two hundred years these reverend shades
Have known no blood, but of black sheep and oxen,
Shed by the priest's own hand to Proserpine.

_Adr._ Forgive a stranger's ignorance: I knew not
The honours of the place.

_Haem._ Thou, Creon, didst.
Not OEdipus, were all his foes here lodged,
Durst violate the religion of these groves,
To touch one single hair; but must, unarmed,
Parle as in truce, or surlily avoid
What most he longed to kill[8].

_Cre._ I drew not first,
But in my own defence.

_Adr._ I was provoked
Beyond man's patience; all reproach could urge
Was used to kindle one, not apt to bear.

_Haem._ 'Tis OEdipus, not I, must judge this act.--
Lord Creon, you and Diocles retire:
Tiresias, and the brother-hood of priests,
Approach the place: None at these rites assist,
But you the accused, who by the mouth of Laius
Must be absolved or doomed.

_Adr._ I bear my fortune.

_Eur._ And I provoke my trial.

_Haem._ 'Tis at hand.
For see, the prophet comes, with vervain crowned;
The priests with yew, a venerable band;
We leave you to the gods. [_Exit_ HAEMON _with_ CREON _and_ DIOCLES.

_Enter_ TIRESIAS, _led by_ MANTO: _The Priests follow; all cloathed
in long black habits._

_Tir._ Approach, ye lovers;
Ill-fated pair! whom, seeing not, I know,
This day your kindly stars in heaven were joined;
When lo, an envious planet interposed,
And threatened both with death: I fear, I fear!--

_Eur._ Is there no God so much a friend to love,
Who can controul the malice of our fate?
Are they all deaf; or have the giants heaven?

_Tir._ The gods are just;
But how can finite measure infinite?
Reason! alas, it does not know itself!
Yet man, vain man, would with this short-lined plummet,
Fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice.
Whatever is, is in its causes just;
Since all things are by fate. But purblind man
Sees but a part o'the chain; the nearest links;