Aristotle's assertion that in Greek tragedy there is no loftier work than 'Oedipus the King' cannot be lightly contradicted. This drama is endued fearfully with nature, as she works against the conscientiousness of measure found in man. Heretofore no translation of this play has been a poem of Sophoclean worthiness and work. The rhythmic stature of this translation runs with the Greek in heat and light.
