Chorus
1737
But, ye loved mourners, since his life hath found
An end the best, the happiest, cease your griefs;
For the assaults of misery none escapelt owne
Hence, my loved sister, let us haste again wond
Whither? with what intent?
I have a wisha di sit
A strong desire, wretch that I am to seen t
Where in his mansion low my father lieske ov
How may this be? Reflect, ah wretched medici
He lies without a tomb, deprivd of all
Lead me, then kill me. Where henceforth, ah me!
Shall I deserted, friendless, helpless; pass s brid I
My miserable life?
My mourning friends,il olloot zill
Be not thus troubled woodti havol za O
Whither shall I flyo ni bosol
Oedipus at Colonus. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.