The stupid man is deaf to all advice.
Yield to the dead man and concede his claim.
Stab not the fallen—he is dead: to slay
The slain again no valor manifests.
’T is my good will to thee that bids me speak.
There ’s nothing sweeter than from him to learn
Who gives advice that doth some profit earn.
Creon. Old man, as archers at their targets, all
Direct your shafts at me, and in your plots
Resort to seer-craft now to gain your ends.
Am I to be the traffic of the tribe
And bought and sold like merchandise? Heap up
Your profits, drive your trade in Sardian silver,
And in the gold of India, if you wish;
But that man ye shall not entomb, I swear,
Not even if the wingéd hounds of Zeus,
The eagles, in their talons should desire
To snatch him up, and morsels of his flesh
Bear skyward to the throne of Zeus,—e’en so,
In fear of even that defilement, none
Shall bury him, for well I know that man
Cannot defile a god. But shamefully
The cunning fall, Teiresias, when they
Make shameful words seem fair for sake of gain.
Teiresias. Ah! Knoweth any man, considereth—
Creon. Know what? Deliver, pray, the maxim whole.
Teiresias. Of all things prudence is how far the best!
Creon. As far as imprudence, methinks, the worst.
Teiresias. Yet with this very malady thou ’rt sick.
Creon. With taunt I would not meet the prophet’s taunt.
Teiresias. You do, pronouncing false my prophecy.
Creon. The whole seer tribe hath ever itching palms.
Teiresias. No less the tribe of tyrants loves base gain.
Creon. Do you not realize that means your king?
Teiresias. I do; from me you learned to save the state.
Creon. A clever seer, but fond of wickedness.
