Where are ye now, mistaken oracles!
That shook my timid virtue, and foretold
That I should prove a guilty parricide?
My father's dead, ye meant but to deceive me;
These hands are not polluted with his blood:
The slave of error, I have wandered long
In darkness, busied in a fruitless toil,
And to remove imaginary ills,
Have made my life a scene of real woes,
The offspring of my fond credulity.
⁠How deep must be the color of my fate
When miseries like this can bring relief!
Bliss spring from sorrow, and a father's death
Shall be accepted as the gift of heaven!
But I must hence, and to his ashes pay
The tribute due:—ha! silent, and in tears!

Ought I to speak? O heaven! Hast thou aught more
Of ill to tell me?

Of ill to tell me? For a moment grant me
Your private ear.

Your private ear. Retire.— [To the attendants.
Your private ear. Retire.— What can this mean?

Think not of Corinth: thither, if thou goest,
Thy death is certain.