Why was I called his son?
_AEge._ He from my arms
Received you, as the fairest gift of nature.
Not but you were adorned with all the riches
That empire could bestow, in costly mantles,
Upon its infant heir.

_OEdip._ But was I made the heir of Corinth's crown,
Because AEgeon's hands presented me?

_AEge._ By my advice,
Being past all hope of children,
He took, embraced, and owned you for his son.

_OEdip._ Perhaps I then am yours; instruct me, sir;
If it be so, I'll kneel and weep before you.
With all the obedience of a penitent child,
Imploring pardon.
Kill me, if you please;
I will not writhe my body at the wound,
But sink upon your feet with a last sigh,
And ask forgiveness with my dying hands.

_AEge._ O rise, and call not to this aged cheek
The little blood which should keep warm my heart;
You are not mine, nor ought I to be blest
With such a god-like offspring. Sir, I found you
Upon the mount Cithaeron.

_OEdip._ O speak, go on, the air grows sensible
Of the great things you utter, and is calm:
The hurried orbs, with storms so racked of late,
Seem to stand still, as if that Jove were talking.
Cithaeron! speak, the valley of Cithaeron!

_AEge._ Oft-times before, I thither did resort,
Charmed with the conversation of a man,
Who led a rural life, and had command
O'er all the shepherds, who about those vales
Tended their numerous flocks: in this man's arms,
I saw you smiling at a fatal dagger,
Whose point he often offered at your throat;
But then you smiled, and then he drew it back,
Then lifted it again,--you smiled again:
'Till he at last in fury threw it from him,
And cried aloud,--The Gods forbid thy death.
Then I rushed in, and, after some discourse,
To me he did bequeath your innocent life;
And I, the welcome care to Polybus.

_OEdip._ To whom belongs the master of the shepherds?

_AEge._ His name I knew not, or I have forgot:
That he was of the family of Laius,
I well remember.

_OEdip._ And is your friend alive? for if he be,
I'll buy his presence, though it cost my crown.

_AEge._ Your menial attendants best can tell
Whether he lives, or not; and who has now
His place.

_Joc._ Winds, bear me to some barren island,
Where print of human feet was never seen;
O'er-grown with weeds of such a monstrous height,
Their baleful tops are washed with bellying clouds;
Beneath whose venomous shade I may have vent
For horrors, that would blast the barbarous world!

_OEdip._ If there be any