Creon. Say naught of her, for she no longer lives.
Ismene. What! Will you slay your son’s affianced bride?
Creon. Yes. There are other fields for him to plow.
Ismene. But ne’er such love and plighted troth as theirs.
Creon. My son shall never have a wicked wife.
Antigone. O dearest Hæmon! by your father wronged!
Creon. Have done with you and with your ‘plighted troth’!
Ch. Leader. And will you really rob your son of her?
Creon. Nay, ’t is the Grave shall stop their wedding.
Ch. Leader. The sentence, then, is passed that she must die?
Creon. By your vote and by mine! No more delay!
Slaves, take them in! From this time on they
Within doors must be kept, as women should.
For verily the bold will oft essay
When they see Death approach, to run away.
CHORUS.
FIRST STROPHE.
Oh! blessed are they whose days are free from trouble and sorrow!
On the house once shaken of heaven will fall a curse on the morrow,
A curse to abide, e’en unto the next generation,
As when the fierce blasts of Thrace, as they form
The huge waves, driving on through darkness and storm,
From the depths rolling up the black sand, even so tribulation
Surges o'er that house—waves pouring
Full on the banks and the rocks
Wind-swept with sullen roaring
And loud resounding shocks.
