Plays of Sophocles

My children, latest born to Cadmus old, Why sit ye here as suppliants, in your handsBranches of olive filleted with wool?What means this reek of incense everywhere, And everywhere laments and litanies?Children, it were not meet that I should learnFrom others, and am hither come, myself, I Oedipus, your world-renowned king. Ho! aged sire, whose venerable locksProclaim thee spokesman of this company, Explain your mood and purport. Is it dreadOf ill that moves you or a boon ye crave?My zeal in your behalf ye cannot doubt; Ruthless indeed were I and obdurateIf such petitioners as you I spurn