Will not the Fury in her sable pall
Pass outward from these halls, what time the gods
Welcome a votive offering from our hands?
Eteocles
The gods! long since they hold us in contempt,
Scornful of gifts thus offered by the lost!
Why should we fawn and flinch away from doom?
Chorus
Now, when it stands beside thee! for its power
May, with a changing gust of milder mood,
Temper the blast that bloweth wild and rude
And frenzied, in this hour!
Eteocles
Ay, kindled by the curse of Oedipus—
All too prophetic, out of dreamland came
The vision, meting out our sire's estate!
Chorus
Heed women's voices, though thou love them not!
Eteocles
Say aught that may avail, but stint thy words.
Chorus
Go not thou forth to guard the seventh gate!
Eteocles
Words shall not blunt the edge of my resolve.
