Third Stasimon

The chorus is alone. Jocasta has just dismissed oracles as worthless. The elders sing in answer. The opening lines are personal: may my lot be to lead a life of innocence, in word and deed, following the old laws whose birthplace is the bright sky and whose father is Olympus alone. These laws never sleep in cold oblivion; the god in them is strong and does not grow old. The form is liturgical, the affirmation is direct, and the address is meant to land over the queen's still-fresh dismissal of prophecy as fraud.

The middle of the ode turns to insolence — hybris, the swollen pride that breeds tyrants. The proud man, glutted with empty riches, climbs a precipitous height and falls from it; there is no foothold on the dizzy steep. May Heaven keep the true patriot who burns with eager zeal to serve the state, the elders sing, and bring down the man who walks unjustly, who profanes the holy things, who grasps at gain by impious means. The lines are general — they would fit any tyrant — but the audience is meant to hear them aimed.

The ode ends with the famous question. If oracles fail and men can scoff at them, why dance the sacred dances anymore? Why go to Delphi or any holy shrine? The elders make their position plain: they will hold to the gods even if the queen's story is true and the prophecy was wrong. The chorus has now placed itself, openly, on the side of the oracles. They have not yet said this means against the king. The next scene will close the gap.